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/ 







LYDIA 

OF LEBANON 


By 

E. PALMER SMITH 

I 



BOSTON 

THE ROXBURGH PUBLISHING CO. 
INC. 





Copyrighted 1919 

BY 

E. PALMER SMITH 
All Rights Reserved 


> 


C 

f i 


OCT 22 , i9l9 




, .v/j: 


©CI.A535440 


TO MY SONS 

AND 

IN MEMORY OF THEIR FATHER 



LYDIA OF LEBANON 

CHAPTER I. 

It was back in the seventies, in eighteen hundred, 
on a sunny autumn afternoon, that the daily 
stage from Alderson to Alden Center — a distance 
of about ten miles — slowly woimd its way in a 
lazy manner up the steep mountain-road, the lead 
horse nosing its way in a zigzag fashion from one 
side of the road to the other, as is customary with 
mountain-road horses, and stopping at all level 
places to rest a bit and, if possible, snatch a nip 
from the low birch bushes or sweet-fem shrub that 
lined either side of the stony road. 

An early frost had touched the sumac and soft 
maple leaves, bringing out their wondrous hidden 
beauty of crimson and gold, with soft brown shades 
that harmonized perfectly. An occasional flash of 
blue like bits of fallen sky showed from the old 
stiunp fences or field stone walls, as the bluebirds 
were arranging for their final leave-taking to a 
warmer climate. Now and then, the chatter of 
chipmonk or ground-squirrel was heard as they 
raced in unbounded freedom from rock to stump 
or scampered up the lofty trees. The sun was 
slowly sinking on the other side of Old Baldy, a 
western knob of the Green Mountains, and an 
occasional whiff of crisp, cool air swept up from 
the valley beyond. 


6 


6 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


The Overland, for such was the name of the 
heavy platform spring-wagon more familiarly called 
“the stage,” had a dusty drab-colored body, plenti- 
fully striped with deep vermilion, a top of heavy 
drab canvas, and side-curtains of same material, 
these to be rolled up tight in pleasant weather 
and buttoned down snug to keep out winter storms, 
or the heavy summer thunder-showers that came 
up so suddenly at times. Its capacity was three 
seats inside and a high driver’s seat in front. On 
the back of the Overland’s body was a wooden rack 
to hold heavy luggage, express, or freight, and to 
the dashboard, beside the whip-socket, was lashed 
a leathern pouch that held a great brass horn. One 
long, shrill toot of this horn warned the dwellers 
along the line that a letter, paper, or parcel was 
forthcoming for some member of the family, before 
whose house the Overland stopped, and two long 
blasts was a welcome warning to the distant moun- 
tain-folk for the same purpose. 

It was getting late in the season, and passengers 
from the world beyond the mountains were rare. 
On this particular autumn afternoon, the stage was 
empty, but, perched on the high seat beside the 
driver, sat a stranger — a small, middle-aged 
woman. She was dressed in the plain, gray garb 
of the Quaker, a little close bonnet of shirred gray 
silk, with shawl and gloves of the same color, which 
matched exactly the soft, wool merino dress she 
wore. A snowy kerchief of finest lawn, neatly 
crossed on her bosom, completed the costume of 
Si Newman’s passenger. 

Si wore a faded black coat, blue flannel shirt 
turned in well at his sun-tanned throat, and a pair 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


7 


of homespim trousers, tucked into his cowhide 
boots. Though late in the season, he still clung to 
a dingy straw hat, from under the brim of which 
a pair of kindly, soft-gray eyes took in every move 
of the stranger beside him. 

The little woman had been strangely silent dur- 
ing the entire journey, speaking only in answer to 
the driver’s questions. They were slowly nearing 
their destination, and were within a couple miles 
of Alden Center, the end of the stage-route. They 
were now traveling on the level. On one side, 
green meadows and great brown fields stretched off 
toward the mountains; on the other, the ground 
sloped gradually down to the valley below. Groves 
of fir and spruce intervened and the passing breezes 
were fond of shaking out that delightful resinous, 
woodsy odor that time and again was wafted up 
to the driver and his companion. 

Down in the valley, a stream from Alden wound 
its snakelike way through patches of silver birch 
and whispering willows. Away on the far side was 
an immense maple grove. Close to its edge and 
near the stream was plainly visible a long, low 
weather-beaten shanty with its field-stone chimneys 
on either end, stretching up to the clouds. This 
was a sugar-camp and, every spring, the woods 
swarmed with men, many of whom were Canucks 
from across the Canadian line. Some tapped the 
trees, some gathered sap, others hauled wood and 
kept up good fires for the boiling of the sap and 
condensing it into syrup, or “sugaring off.” 

Still farther down, there stood out in magnificent 
outline or relief the famous Parker apple-orchards, 
the largest and finest in the state. 


8 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


“Can thee tell me about that great plantation of 
trees yonder?" asked the woman. 

Si Newman shifted the quid of tobacco from one 
cheek to the other, gave a sly squirt of tobacco 
juice behind his hand, drew in the leg that had 
been swinging outside the wagon, and, pulling a 
little tighter rein on the horses, replied; “Wall, I 
jest reckon I kin inform yer on thet subject, ma’am. 
I hain’t been travelin’ these ’ere mountains an’ hills 
fer forty odd year fer nothin’. Yes, ma’am, I kin 
tell yer all erbout it. Ye see, it wuz like this: it 
wuz ’way back in ther forties when old man Parker 
come up ’ere frum Massachusetts; he come ’ere 
fiu: his health. Arter erwhile, he closed a bargain 
fer thet hull mountain-side, bought it fer a song 
nigh erbout. It wuz covered with ther finest uv 
timber. Wall, he hired er crew of Canucks who 
cut an’ felled emuf ter build er cabin fer him an’ 
his new wife, an’ they settled right down ter livin’. 

“Wall, Stuart Parker cleared thet hull mountain- 
side; patch arter patch uv timber come down; an’ 
all the time he wuz growin’ stronger. One day, 
ther wuz er leetle baby come ter him an’ his good 
wife, Susan, an’ ermong ther presents sent up from 
Boston wuz a basket uv apples, an’ Stuart Parker 
saved every dam seed. Wall, he planted ’um out 
ther next spring. A good many uv ’um sprouted 
an’ growed. Old Parker — but he wuz young 
then — planted ’um over. Then he planned out 
thet orchard an’ ev’ry time ther wuz er new baby 
corne, he planted out er tree an’ every time er 
visitor come, he planted er tree. He’d set er Spy 
fer er boy an’ er Jilly Flower fer er gal. Wall, it 
went on thet way until ev’ry child an’ visitor wuz 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


9 


favored with er tree planted fur ’um until ther wuz 
ther finest an' biggest orchard in ther hull uv Ver- 
rnont. Gosh all fish-hooks, ma’am, no, they wuzn’t 
ail frum them ther seed. Wall, thet air orchard is 
now called ther great ‘Parker Memorial Orchard’ 
thet yer read erbout. Them air apples has took 
ther blue ribbon more then once an’ don’t yer 
fergit it.” 

The beautiful stream below ran through a rich 
farming-district. Occasional farmhouses could be 
seen snuggled in green hollows or perched on the 
breezy hilltops. On beyond, the distant village 
could be seen with its rustic one street that ran 
parallel with the stream. Its buildings were strung 
along like an old-fashioned button-string. First 
among the buildings of importance were the churches. 
Alden Center boasted of two, one the old South 
Baptist meeting-house with its tall, slim spire reach- 
ing heavenward. Along its east side, ran a row of 
sheds to accommodate the teams, and there Sunday 
morning, could be found almost any kind of a 
vehicle from a farm-wagon to a family-chaise. It 
was surrounded by its ‘‘God’s Acre,” or graveyard 
as it was commonly called. On the north side, 
was the Presbyterian Church, with almost identical 
surroimdings. Then, came the Academy, which 
yearly turned out a goodly number of graduates to 
be scattered in various directions; some went to 
college, some were apprenticed to tradesmen in 
Alderson or Bolton, some back to the old farm-life, 
and some drifted out to the larger cities. 

Lem Sawyer owned the village general store, and 
here everything was kept from a nutmeg to a hay- 
rake, and Lemuel had also the honor of being post- 


10 


LYDIA OP LEBANON 


master. Here, daily, was the usual exchange of 
neighborhood gossip that was greatly enjoyed, 
especially when Si Newman, the stage-driver, woiild 
bring in an interesting batch from ^ong the line. 

The farmers, whose horses stood hitched in a row 
to a pole held in place by two upright posts that 
stood in front of the geneml store, swapp^ politics, 
gossip, or religion, as the notion took them. Next 
to this store, stood the village tavern. Its narrow 
white sign-board on which was painted in big, 
black letters, “Alden Tavern,” swayed and creaked 
on its rus^ hinges, with every passing breeze. The 
low, broad veranda, with benches running the whole 
len^h, invited the bystanders to a place of rest, 
and here daily loafed all that could spare the time 
to watch the stage come in. A few dull-gray houses 
of various sizes and kinds, many with neat front 
yards and white-washed palings, farther down a 
blacksmith-shop with one end partitioned ofiE for 
a cobbler’s shop, the cobbler acting as barber when 
the occasion demanded — completed the business 
part. 

Not far down the road, and well set back, was a 
fine native-stone house with brick trimmings, deep, 
mulhoned windows with broad stone sills, broad 
verandas, weU-kept lawn with neatly tr imm ed 
hedges, and wide brick walks. It was called the 
Grange, and was both the envy and the admiration 
of the surrounding country. 

At sight of the distant village, the stranger again 
inquired of the driver about its inhabitants and 
asked who lived in the great house, the chimneys of 
which were visible among the distant tree tops, 
remarking that it was an imusual sight in such a 


LYDLA. OF LEBANON 


11 


remote place. Si Newman again shifted his quid, 
gave the customary squirt and replied : 

“Wall, ma'am, I guess I kin satisfy yer curiosity. 
I jest happen ter know ther inhabitants uv thet 
place. Thet is ther home uv old Squire Granger, 
who hez ez fine er gal ez ye'd find in er day's travel. 
No, ma'am she's not his darter. He calls her his 
ward an' is mighty fond uv her. Her name is St. 
Clair, Miss Lillian St. Clair." 

The stranger gave a slight start and again inquired 
who lived m the farmhouse they were approachiag. 
It was a medium-sized frame house, set weU back 
from the road, neat in appearance, and surrotmded 
by both fruit and forest trees, which made it very 
attractive to the eye. 

“Wall, ma'am. Uncle Nat Wilbur an' his wife, 
Aimt Rhue, lives thar, an' er likely couple they air, 
too." 

“Wilt thou kindly stop at the little bridge we 
are co min g to and help me off, and, to-morrow, 
stop thy horses at yonder farmhouse gate, for I 
desire to return to Alderson with thee." 

“Yes, ma'am. I'll do it an' mighty glad uv yer 
company, fer it's er little tejus travelin’ over the^ 
hills erlone. I guess ther 'Samist imderstood his 
bizness when he talked erbout ther hills so much. 
By ther way, do yer happen ter know Unde Nat's 
folks, ma'am," and he slyly spit over the wheel as 
he ducked to his horses. 

“Thee should not be so inqiiisitive, my friend, but 
I will answer thee, nay, and ask thee if thee knows 
Friend Wilbur thyself." 

“Ha, ha, ha! Wall, thet's er purty question ter 
ask me — do I know Unde Nat Wilbur? Wall, I 


12 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


guess yes, an’ thet’s not all: I know Aunt Rhue ez 
my own mother an’ leetle Lyddy, too. Yes, ma’am, 
I do know them all an’ mighty proud uv ther 
knowin’, fer they air er prime lot.” 

As Si drew near the little bridge, he stopped and 
slid down from the off side; then, he gently helped 
the little lady to the ground. 

“Say, ma’am, shall I tell Aimt Rhue ye air 
cornin’? Yer see, I hev ter stop thar an’ leave 
some kind uv er tamal riggin’ uv er chair an’ it 
beats all creation whar it come frum, but I’m sure 
glad fur it, fer, since Uncle Nat hed his legs broke 
an’ his leetle granddaughter hed ther fever, it’s 
bin er purty uphill job with only Aunt Rhue ter 
manage.” 

“No; keep silent, please, that I came with thee. 
I will rest a while and then walk on and announce 
myself.” 

“All right, jest ez yer say, not ez I keer,” and, 
putting one foot on the hub of the wheel, he swung 
himself up to his seat and, with a cluck to his 
horses, said to himself: “Gosh all fish-hooks, I won- 
der who in thimder thet ther woman is an’ what 
she wants at Nat Wilbur’s!” 

The little woman in gray sat down on a stone and, 
dropping her tired head in her hands, said: “I am 
so tired. Why, oh, why did I come? But the hand 
of Providence has guided me and I will abide by the 
consequences.” 

The stage rattled along the dusty road and drew 
up before the farmhouse. Then Si gave his horn 
a shrill toot, turned and looked back toward the 
bridge, and waited. 

“0, Grandma, come quick! Uncle Si has stopped 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


13 


and has blowed his hom before our own gate. Do 
come quick, Grandma.” 

“La, Lyddy, compose yerself. I’ll jest slip on this 
fresh gingham. Hand me my sunbonnet, child, 
while I smooth my hair. Ye fluster me when yer 
hurry me so,” and Aunt Rhue brought her hands 
down each side of her face with a smoothing motion 
while she spoke. 

“O, Grandma, hurry, please. Why, Uncle Si is 
taking down some queer-looking thing. He surely 
has made a mistake, for it can never be for 
us.” 

“Now, Lyddy, don’t get excited. Yer Uncle Si 
knows his bizness an’ we will soon know all erbout 
it,” and, putting on her sunbonnet, she went out 
the kitchen-door. 

“Hello, Aunt Rhue,” called the stage-driver. “I 
’low yer must hev friends somewhar, fer here’s er 
pair uv ther finest lambs I ever sot eyes on, reg’lar 
Southdowns.” 

“Goodness gracious. Si, do yer mean ter say 
them lambs air fer me?” 

“Yes, siree, they air your’n. Aunt Rhue; yer 
name’s writ right on ter ther rack ez plain ez day — 
‘Mrs. Rhuia Wilbur, Leb’non, near Alden Center, 
care Mr. Si Newman, via The Overland.’ Now, 
Aunt Rhue, what in thunder’s ‘via’? An’ here’s er 
letter fer Lyddy. How’s ther leetle gal gittin’ on 
an’ how’s Uncle Nat?” 

“Lyddy ’s gettin’ on fair ter middlin’, Si, but I 
feel downright sorry fer Father. He’s nigh erbout 
heart-broken. It’s gittin’ late an’ ther’s so much to 
do on ther farm this fall. It’s mighty tejus. Si, ter 
lie like Father does, day in an’ day out. But, Si, 


14 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


what’s this thing?” laying her hand on the chair 
“Surely, this is not fer us. Why, this thing’s frum 
Bolton.” 

“Yes, it is. Aunt Rhue, an’ erbout ther tamalist, 
confoundest thing ter handle yer ever saw. Why, 
it’s erbout ez onery ez thet stringed harp instrument, 
ther kind yer hev ter sit down ter play on, ther 
kind I brung up fer Miss St. Clair last summer. Tell 
Uncle Nat I’ll be up arter supper an’ chore-time ter 
shave him an’ ter look into this ’ere pesky consam 
an’ help get him inter this new-fangled riggin’. It 
says on it ‘Improved Invalid Chair.’ Wall, all I 
hope is, it’ll improve ther invalid.” Then, he placed 
his foot on the hub and swung into place, cracked 
his whip, and the Overland bounded along the 
dusty road, out of sight. 

Aunt Rhue stood dumbfounded, arms akimbo, 
looking at first one, then the other. 

“Whar under ther light uv ther sim, moon, an’ 
stars did these things come frum? They sure must 
be fer us, fer ther name is writ ez plain ez day on 
’um. But whar did they come frum?” 

She walked quickly to the house, waving the 
letter, and, as she entered the door, she said: “Here, 
Lyddy, is a real letter fer yer, an’ yer name is writ 
in full on it, an’ thar’s a pair uv ther purtiest lambs 
out thar yer ever sot eyes on, beside er new-fangled 
chair uv some kind fer yer grandpa. I must call 
Jake at once ter help me git ther lambs eround ter 
ther bam before it gits any later, an’ he must bring 
thet air chair in, too.” 

hfLydia took the letter, looked at the address 
thoughtfully, turned it over again and again. “Per- 
haps I had better wait until Grandma comes in,” 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


15 


she ^id to herself, and laid the letter on the table. 
Lydia was between nine and ten years old. She 
had great, brown lustrous eyes and a crop of dark 
chestnut-brown hair that in the simlight glinted a 
burnished-copper hue. Although it was combed 
straight back from a broad, fair forehead and 
braided tight into a pigtail that was tied with a 
narrow black ribbon, tiny, kinky tendrils sprung up 
over her head. She was hollow-eyed and her high 
cheek bones were painfully visible. She was slender, 
tall for her age, and very thin. Her linsy-woolsy 
dress came just below her knees and her long, brown 
ankles were bare. She had recently recovered from 
a long spell of fever, and her convalescence was 
slow. She had been deprived of the tender, croon- 
ing mother love, and her loving, restless, unquiet 
little heart had never really been understood. She 
had a yearning love for everything beautiful far 
beyond her years and fully enjoyed her mountain- 
home surrounded by natime’s lavish hand. But 
there was ever an indescribable longing for something 
she could not understand nor explain; consequently 
she never mentioned it but to her grandmother. 

Her child-life had been somewhat dreary — many 
a drab day with no brightness or change except 
what her fancy embroidered. There was no source 
on this remote mountain-home from which to draw 
childhood’s happiness, but she built her castles and 
lived in them. Her grandparents idolized her in 
their quiet way and were kind and good to her, for 
the only real heart-love she knew was from them. 
Her dream-house, as she called it, gave her much 
innocent satisfaction. By its imaginary fires, she 
warmed into life many companions. She often tried 


16 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


to imagine her parents had gone away for a time 
and that some time they would surely return for 
her, and often fell asleep, dreaming she was cuddled 
up in her mother’s arms. 

All through her childhood, she lived in that 
imaginary frame of mind. Her dream-home in the 
summer was under a large clump of sweet elder. 
Here, she would cuddle down, folding her bare feet 
beneath her, then with elbows on her knees, and 
chin resting in the palms of her hands, give herself 
up to her dreams or reveries. At times, she actu- 
ally hungered for the mother love, yet, despite 
her double orphanage, she was very happy on 
Lebanon. 

Child though she was, she had wonderful dreams 
of glorious achievements. Some day, she would go 
out into the great world beyond. O, happy child! 
“Close your alabaster box of ambition and lock it 
in the sanctuary of content!’’ Just be happy while 
you can. Her love and tender care for her grand- 
parents was pathetically touching. There was ever 
a depth of gentleness and tenderness shown them 
far beyond her years, and her grandparents would 
quickly resent the least intimation that they did 
not love her ; yet it was impossible for them to under- 
stand the delicate, sensitive little soul with whom 
they had to deal. They idolized her in their way, 
and the homely, wholesome discipline she daily 
received was unconsciously paving the way for a 
useful and delightful future. 

She picked up the letter and looked at it long- 
ingly. She could resist the temptation no longer to 
open and read it. Carefully, she broke the seal and 
drew forth the letter, scanning it over quickly. 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 17 

Then, she darted into the next room where her 
grandfather was lying. 

“O, Grandpa! here is a really, truly letter for me, 
and who do you suppose it is from? It is from that 
lovely Mr. Armstrong who boarded here this stun- 
mer. Don't you remember? He left just after 
you broke your legs. Just listen. Grandpa, he writes 
that he has ordered a chair for you that he thinks 
will make you more comfortable, and some lambs 
for me. The very thing I have wanted so long. 
O, I am so happy. Do you think Grandma will 
be disappointed because they are not for her?" 

‘Tut, tut, my child, now don’t go ter worryin’ 
erbout thet. Yer grandma’ll be glad ther fer yer." 

“Grandpa, why do you suppose that fine gentle- 
man sent those lovely things to us? He says when 
he comes this way again, he will surely stop, for he 
enjoyed Lebanon so much with us." 

“I don’t know, Lyddy; p’raps he hed been readin’ 
ther passage uv Scripter thet says: ‘Inasmuch as ye 
do it unto ther least uv them, ye do it unto me.’ ’’ 

‘‘Grandpa, can you spare me for a few minutes, 
just long enough to run out to the bam and see the 
lambs?" 

‘‘Yes, yes, child, mn erlong; er breath uv fresh 
air’ll do yer good." 

As the happy child darted out of the door. Uncle 
Nat took a long sigh and said: “Wall, wall, uv all 
things! Who would hev thought thet young Arm- 
strong would hev remembered us way off ’ere on 
Lebanon? He wuz always so tamal busy nosin’ 
eround arter rocks an’ stuns an’ readin’ an’ writin’, 
yer’d never think he hed time ter think uv any- 
body’s trouble an’ affliction. But he wuz er clever 


18 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


sort uv er chap, arter all, an’ seemed ter set great 
store by Lyddy. I’m certainly thankful fer any- 
thing that’ll help git me out uv ’ere; an’ ez fer 
Lyddy, pore little gal, it’ll help her ter pass ther 
time pleasant-like, lookin’ arter ther lambs.” 

He slowly raised his thin, bony hand, running his 
fingers through his grizzled grey hair and beard; 
then he said: “Oh, Lord, how much longer hev I 
got ter lie here? There’s ther com sufferin’ ter be 
cut an’ shocked, ther late pertaters ter dig, thet 
lean-to ter fix fer winter shelter fer ther sheep an’ 
cattle, ter say nothin’ erbout them tamal bees. 
They must be looked arter fer all thet honey an’ 
beeswax’ll be clear gain ef we kin only git it looked 
arter an’ off ter market. Mother can’t ever go ter 
makin’ thet air journey erlone, an’ we can’t spare 
Jake, an’ Philip an’ Lyddy air too young. I jest 
tell ye. Lord, we are up ag’inst er hard problem jest 
at present, with no solution ter fit it either. If we 
pay ther intmst cornin’ due January, it’ll leave 
mighty little ter ’ply on ther mortgage, an’ me lyin’ 
here jest good fer nothin’. But I must not complain. 
Mother’s got all she kin ’tend ter without listenin’ 
ter my whinin’.” 

As Lydia and her grandmother came in, a sharp 
rap came to the living-room door. 

“Run ter ther door, Lyddy, fer I hain’t fit ter be 
seen. I’ve no doubt it’s Parson Riggs come ter see 
yer grandpa.” 

Lydia hastened to open the door and saw a lady 
standing there. 

“Good evening, little girl; is thy mother at 
home?” 

“Will you please come in? I have no mother. 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


19 


ma’am, but Grandma will be pleased to see you,” 
and she drew forward an old-fashioned rocker for 
the stranger. “Please to sit down and I will call 
Grandma,” and, making a little courtesy, she left 
the room. 

The stranger took her seat, then cast her eyes in 
mental survey around the room. Everything was 
in order. The green paper shades at the windows 
was neatly draped with plain but snowy muslin cur- 
tains, a bright, home-made rag carpet covered the 
floor; on the opposite side of the room was a large 
fire-place and the mantel-shelf over it was ornamented 
with two large brass candle-sticks, each holding a 
fresh tallow-dip candle, and brass snuffers and tray 
set between them. A couple of pewter porringers, 
scoured to silver brightness, completed the mantle- 
ornamentation. Over the mantle and crossed, hung 
a carbine and sword, silent reminders of Civil-War 
times. 

At her right, stood an old clock, its top reaching 
almost to the ceiling; its white dial-plate, worn in 
many places, gave mute testimony of its usage for 
years. On the opposite side, a comfortable bed- 
lounge with tick neatly covered with turkey red 
calico, and a row of pillows well shaken and patted 
into shape and covered with the same material, 
bade a silent welcome to tired and weary bodies. 
On a small table, stood a good-sized glass fluid- 
lamp, quite a luxury in those days, while several 
rush-bottomed chairs and a little rocker of the same 
kind completed the furnishings. Several gay braided 
rugs added much to the comfortable and thrifty 
atmosphere of the room. 

Hearing a step, she arose to meet Aunt Rhue, 


20 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


saying: “Have I the pleasure of meeting Sister 
Wilbur, of Lebanon? I am Margaret Filmore, of 
Philadelphia, and beg that thee will keep me over 
night in the shelter of thy home. My nephew, 
Philip Armstrong, has told me of thee.” 

Aunt Rhue stood silent for a moment, then said; 
“We know yer nephew, Philip Armstrong, ef so he 
be. Be seated, madam. I’ll speak ter Father.” 
She quickly returned, saying: “Sartin, Mrs. Filmore, 
ye air welcome; I will gladly keep yer over night.” 
Then, crossing the room, she threw open a door and, 
motioning to the stranger, said: “Take off yer things 
and make yerself ter home. Ye kin jest lay ’em 
on ther bed fer now. Supper’ll soon be ready.” 

The little Quakeress crossed the room. Remov- 
ing her bonnet and shawl, she laid them on the bed, 
placed her handbag at the foot, and glanced around. 
The same air of thrifty, painstaking housewifery 
that pervaded the living-room was in evidence here. 
Ever^hing was scrupulously clean, but severely 
plain. A neat patchwork quilt of “goose chase” 
pattern covered the bed; there were snowy pillows 
of softest down, covered with homespun linen, neatly 
made by hand and trimmed with a narrow edge of 
knitted lace. The old-fashioned bureau and the 
wash-stand with glass knobs were covered with 
homespun linen bleached to snowy whiteness. 

On the wash-stand, stood a bowl and pitcher of 
common white delf, and a little white saucer held 
a piece of transparent soap. A pair of towels, 
neatly folded, were laid over the pitcher and, on 
the foot of the bed, ready for use, was laid a couple 
of handwoven wool blankets. Over the bureau, 
hung a small looking-glass, the upper half of which 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


21 


was a gay picture of a little church amid the green 
trees. There was only one window, but it was hung 
with neat dimity curtains, looped back with stiffly 
starched bands of the same material, and a strip 
of new rag carpet was laid beside the bed. Every- 
thing was immaculate and bespoke the most thrifty 
housekeeping and careful usage. Margaret Filmore 
long remembered the impressions she received in that 
humble little room. 

There was a gentle tap at the door, and, when 
opened, Lydia said: “Grandma said will you please 
come to supper?” 

Mrs. Filmore followed the child into a large, clean 
kitchen. In the middle of the room, stood a square 
table. Its cloth of homespun linen was spotless. 
The fragrance of newly brewed tea was a delightful 
odor to the tired traveler. A plate of steaming 
cream biscuit, another of new honey, a glass dish 
held a pat of fresh golden butter, a dish of creamed 
potatoes, and a small mulberry platter held fresh 
eggs, poached to perfection. Cottage-cheese and 
fresh ginger cake, sweetened with maple molasses 
completed the supper that greeted the little woman 
in gray. 

At the table, sat Jake Dunston, the hired man, 
who pulled his foretop and said, “Howdy,” and 
Philip Strong, the boy who worked for his board 
and clothes and went to school with Lydia in the 
winter. Between them, sat Lydia, with hair brushed 
back with unusual smoothness. 

Aunt Rhue, with teapot in hand, motioned to the 
table with the other, saying: “Set right down an' 
hev er cup uv tea. It'll rest yer 'mazin’. It's ther 
real imperial kind an' is good fer tired nerves.” 


22 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


When Aunt Rhue was seated, they all bowed 
their heads. Lydia clasped her hands and, closing 
her eyes, said: “God is great; God is good. We 
thank Him for this food. Amen. And please, dear 
God, bless the stranger with us this night.” 

Margaret Filmore looked up with moist eyes and 
said: “Thee is a good child, and I do feel grateful 
for the shelter of this peaceful home, and may the 
God you thanked for this food bless every member 
of this family.” 

About the time they had finished supper, there 
came a rap at the door. 

“Come in,” called Aunt Rhue. The door opened 
and there stood Si Newman. Removing his hat, 
he called out in his cheery voice : 

“Good evenin’, ma’am. Howdy, boys. Evenin’, 
Aunt Rhue an’ Lyddy. I’ve come up ter shave 
Uncle Nat an’ give him er lift into thet new-fangled 
cheer. Shall I go right in?” 

“Yes, Si, an’ I thank ye, too. Father’ll be glad 
ter see yer.” 

Si crossed the room and, in a moment, there came 
from within: “Jerusalem artichokes! How are yer. 
Uncle Nat?” 

“Tip-top fer me. Si. I reckon I’m on the gain.” 

“Well, Uncle Nat, ez soon ez Jake’s through 
supper, we’ll hev yer out uv thar. Jake an’ me’ll 
do ther liftin’ an’ Aunt Rhue kin do ther bossin’.” 

After supper, Lydia said: “Grandma, please may 
I see Uncle Si lift Grandpa in his new chair?” 

“Child,” Aunt Rhue said, laying a hand on her 
head and smoothing her hair, “don’t yer think yer 
hed better stay out here. When we air through. 
I’ll let ye in. In the meantime, yer kin put erway 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


23 


ther food an' clar away ther supper-things, an’ I’ll 
wash ther dishes while ye go in an’ see yer grandpa.” 
Turning to Philip, she said: “Don’t fergit ther new 
lambs, Philip. They air in er strange place an’ will 
need er little extry motherin’; an’ ye had better 
take down ther fireboard an’ kindle a little fire. 
Ther air is keen ter-night. Ye’ll find plenty uv 
pine knots in ther entry.” 

Lydia, quietly and without a word, put away the 
food, cleared up the dishes, put a stick of wood in 
the stove, folded the white cloth neatly and replaced 
it with a cheery red one, gave the cat a saucer of 
milk, at the same time stopping long enough to 
give it a stroke or two; then, drawing her little 
chair near the stranger, she sat down and looked up 
into the face of the woman in gray, as if inviting 
conversation. 

“I hear thy name is Lydia. How old is thee?” 

“Yes, ma’am, my name is Margaret Lydia Wilbur, 
but most every one calls me Lyddy, except my 
school-teacher and dear Miss Lillian, and I am 
almost ten years old.” 

“Has thee always lived with thy grandparents?” 

“Yes, as long as I can remember.” 

“Your parents, dear — does thee remember 
them?” 

“No, ma’am; my father was killed in the war and 
my precious mother died when I was an infant; but 
she was a good mother. Grandma says so, and she 
knows, and oh! I love her so.” 

“Where are they buried, dear?” 

“In the South Church graveyard, ma’am.” 

“Why do you say South Church graveyard?” 

“Why, the Presbyterian church is on the north 


24 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


side of the village and the Baptist is on the south; 
that is why we call them north and south.” 

“Lydia,” called the excited voice of her grand- 
mother, “come now an’ see yer grandpa sittin’ in 
his new chair, an’ ther directions say he kin wheel 
himself anywhar by loosenin’ somethin’.” 

“Yes,” said Si Newman, “we’ve looked everywhar 
fer ther tamal thingumbob, but I’ll be jiggered ef I 
kin find it.” 

The little woman arose and walked to the bed- 
room-door, saying: “If thee will allow me, I think 
I can show you how to adjust it so thee can roll 
it at will.” 

“Come on then,” said Si. 

The little woman went in and, stooping over the 
chair, almost immediately caused it to roll in any 
direction. 

“Thank ’e, ma’am. Thet wuz er neat trick an’ 
none uv us knew it but yer.” 

“Thee is quite welcome, my friend; thou wilt have 
no more trouble. The reason I knew so well was 
because I spent a number of weeks once in a chair 
like this. I was thrown from a carriage and my 
spine injured. Thee will find much comfort and con- 
venience in thy chair.” 

As she passed from the room, she whispered to 
the stage-driver: “Thee need not stop thy horses in 
the morning.” 

Si Newman winked one eye and smiled. 

As Aunt Rhue returned to the living-room, the 
little Quakeress arose and said: “With thy per- 
mission, I will retire. I find I am more weary than 
I realized.” 

“Very well, ma’am,” and Aunt Rhue lighted a 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


25 


candle and handed it to her. “Good night; I hope 
ye will sleep well an’ if ye need more kiver, thar’s 
er couple wool blankets on er cheer, carded, spun, 
an’ wove by my own hands.’’ 

“I thank thee, and good night. Friend Wilbur, 
and may God bless thee and thy household.’’ 

As Aunt Rhue left the room, she said to herself: 
“Well, I do declar ter man, that’s the second time 
thet woman hez blessed this house an’ its inmates, 
an’ I’m proper thankful fer it; fer we need all ther 
blessin’s we git at this pertic’lar time, an’ though it 
don’t put any cloths on our backs, ner food in our 
stomachs, it’s comfortin’ like, arter all.’’ 

Margaret Filmore put the candle on the stand 
and, seating herself, with clasped hands, pondered 
over the strange situation. It was long past mid- 
night before the Quakeress slept. Memories of the 
long ago came trooping sorrowfully before her, re- 
viving thoughts she had sought to forget. Unbid- 
den tears moistened her pillow as she prayed: 

“My times are in Thy hands.’’ 

The crowing of the cocks and the hollowing of 
Jake driving the cows to the north pasture awak- 
ened the Quakeress and, on opening her eyes, she 
found the sun flooding her room with brightness. 
Hastily rising, she bathed her face and hands in 
the cool, pure spring water of Lebanon, and, drop- 
ping on her knees, buried her face in her hands. On 
rising, she opened the door and found Lydia, clean 
and smiling, sitting on a stool by the window. 

“Good morning, Lydia; and what is thee 
doing?’’ 

“I’m reading the lesson for the day, and it is 
about Christ in the garden. I feel so sorry for 


26 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


Him; but Grandma says every one has their Geth- 
semane sooner or later. Do you think so?” 

“Your grandmother is right child. ‘Into each 
life some rain must fall.’ ” 

‘‘Will you have some breakfast now?” Lydia 
asked. 

Hand in hand, they went out into the kitchen, 
where everything looked bright and cheery. The 
table was set for one, as the family had long since 
had their breakfast. Aunt Rhue came in with her 
hands full of shining milk-pans and greeted her 
guest with a cheery smile and a pleasant ‘‘Good 
morning. I hope ye rested well an’ our noisy clatter 
did not disturb yer.” 

“I thank thee, and I hope thee rested likewise. 
And how is thy good husband?” 

‘‘Wall, ma’am, he is mighty well pleased with his 
new chair, an’ I hev got him into it already with er 
little uv Lyddy’s help. It does beat all erbout these 
’ere new-fangled inventions.” 

Mrs. Filmore had finished her breakfast, and, look- 
ing up to Aunt Rhue, remarked: ‘‘I thank thee. 
Sister Wilbur, more than I can express for thy kind- 
ness to me, and with thy permission I will tarry a 
day or two longer. I find it very restful here and, 
needing it so much for my return journey, will 
glady remain, if thou wilt keep me.” 

“Ye kin stay an’ welcome, Mrs. Filmore, fer I 
like yer ways, an’ ef ye can put up with our homely 
way uv livin’, ye kin stay.” 

“Sister Wilbur, does thee think it would harm 
Lydia to walk to the village this morning. I am 
interested in those quaint country churchyards, and 
would like to visit yours.” 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


27 


At this moment, Lydia came in singing, “A charge 
to keep I have, a God to glorify.” 

“Lyddy, Mrs. Filmore would like ter go down 
Alden way this momin’. Do ye feel able ter go 
with her?” 

”0, yes. Grandma, I would dearly love to go. 
The chickens and turkeys are fed and the ducks 
turned into the run, and just see the eggs I have 
found this morning. Grandma, did you know Jim 
Buckley has just come up the west lane to help 
with the com? Isn’t that just fine? But Jim is 
such a good man to help out an3rway, isn’t he. 
Grandma.” 

“Wall, Lyddy, ye know Jim is one uv Alden 
Center’s good fer nothin’s, but he’s alius been kind 
ter us. But one thing I believe an’ thet is thet 
Si Newman’s hed a finger in ther pie, sendin’ Jim 
up ter help Jake; but mn erlong an’ get ready.” 

“O, Grandma, when we come back, may I crack 
some hickory nuts and make some maple candy for 
our guest?” 

“I am ready, dear,” said Mrs. Filmore, “and as 
thy grandmother has given consent that I tarry 
another day, thee need not hurry with thy candy.” 

“Here, Lyddy!” called her grandfather, “bring me 
yer hickories an’ ther hammer, an’ I’ll crack ’em 
fer ye. While yer gone, yer grandma’ll fix a stun 
fer me on ther arm uv this chair.” P 

“But, Grandpa, dear, do you think you can with- 



out hurting you? 

ttrs j • _ _i_*i J . 


hurting you?” 

‘Sartin, child; bring ’em erlong.” 


(<i 


“O, Grandpa, it will be such a help, and I|can 
pick out the kernels when I come back. Was there 
ever such a dear grandfather as mine?” 


28 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


“May I say good morning to thy husband before 
I go?” 

“Sartin; I will wheel him right out in the kitchen.” 

“Good morning, sir. How does thee feel?” 

“Fit ez er new string-fiddle, ma’am, an’ I sure 
think, uv all ther new inventions man ever made, 
this ’ere chair is ther finest. I feel like er new man. 
Won’t ye sit down?” 

“No, I thank thee. Thy little granddaughter and 
I are going for a walk.” 

“Now, Lyddy, do be careful, child; don’t git tired 
out,” Aunt Rhue called after them. “Be sure an’ 
rest well before ye start back. Ye know ye air not 
ther strongest yit.” 

“I will be thoughtful of her,” the Quakeress 
promised. 

Very soon, they were walking along the dry, 
dusty road down Lebanon way to Alden. An occa- 
sional shrill “cheep, cheep” of the locust, a “dry- 
weather fiy” Lydia called it, and the lowing of the 
cattle from the far-off pastures, added to the inter- 
est of their walk. They stopped very often for 
Lydia to tell the name of the different herb, shrub, 
or bush, and to explain their individual medicinal 
qualities and the proper time of year to gather 
them. She also told who lived in the different 
houses they passed, their occupation, how many in 
family, and their names. 

After walking about a mile, taking it easy and 
resting often, they came to the old south church 
graveyard. It was enclosed with a solid moss- 
covered field stone wall. They went up over stone 
steps, resting a moment on the top one, before 
descending the other side. The old church, stand- 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


29 


ing like a grim sentinel in the middle of the yard, 
added to the solemnity. Many of the graves were 
sunken and overgrown with weeds, seered and brown 
by the touch of frost. Here and there leaned a 
headstone quite out of plumb, as though being 
tired of a sentinel’s position. Many graves had 
field-stone markers, with name and date crudely 
chiseled in, and an occasional shaft of native granite 
was seen. 

At last, they came to a plot on which were several 
graves looking trim and well kept, and overrun 
with a riot of glossy green leaves. Between two 
graves stood a good-sized cross, cut from a slab of 
native granite. 

The Quakeress stood and read: “Col. Robert 
Wilbur; age 26; killed in the Battle of the Wilder- 
ness, May 6, 1864”; and “Margaret Lydia, his wife; 
age 24; died of grief, Nov. 30, 1864.” 

The little girl brushed the leaves from a large, 
flat stone seat and invited her guest to sit down. 
She complied, and, drawing the child near her, 
said: “Does thee come often to visit this place?” 

“O, yes, every Sunday that I come to Sunday- 
school and almost every school-day at the noon 
hour when the weather is fine. I just love to come.” 

“Why dost thou love to come to this quiet, sacred 
place?” 

“It is because she was my mother. I sit on this 
stone and close my eyes and pretend to visit with 
her. Sometimes, she comes and stands by me and 
sometimes she puts her hand on my head and says : 
‘God bless my little orphan girl,’ and it makes me 
so happy. I am sure I shall know her in heaven by 
the way she looks here.” 


30 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


“How does she look?” the Quakeress asked in a 
soft voice. 

“O, her beautiful hair is all waves and her eyes 
are so soft and blue, and she always smiles at me 
so sweet. Grandma told me once it was fancies or 
day-dreams. I guess it is, but it makes me happy.” 

“So you talk with your grandmother about it.” 

“Not very often. I don’t like to bother Grandma, 
for it might make her sad, and she is so good. She 
loves mother, too, for father’s sake. O, Mrs. Fil- 
more, here comes Miss Lillian. She is just the 
loveliest lady in the whole world. She is my Sun- 
day-school teacher and came so often to see me 
when I was sick and would read to me the nicest 
stories, and brought such delicious things to eat 
and books to read; and she has been so kind to 
Grandpa, he calls her Sunshine.” 

“Good morning. Miss Lillian,” called Lydia, as 
she ran to meet her. “I’m so glad to see you; and 
this is our guest, Mrs. Filmore, of Philadelphia.” 

“How does thee do? I am glad to know thee. 
Miss Lillian. Thy little friend has been telling 
me of thy goodness to her, and I may add ‘May 
every kindness rendered return in a blessing to thee 
in the future.’ Does thee live near here?” 

“Yes; I live in the gray stone house yonder, just 
visible among the maples.” Taking Lydia’s hand, 
she asked: “How is it, little one, that I never heard 
you mention this friend before?” 

“Nay, nay, my friend, do not criticize thy little 
friend. She never saw me until last evening. I 
am a stranger, just traveling for pastime, and 
Lydia’s grandparents took me in and made me 
welcome.” 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


31 


“You are indeed fortunate, Mrs. Filmore; the 
Wilburs are most excellent people. They never 
say much, but they are particularly well informed. 
Uncle Nat is of a broad mind, a deep thinker, and 
one of our best intellectual farmers. He comes of 
an old family as does his wife, and I have heard 
Uncle Granger say that, if he could have finished 
his college course, the world would have heard 
from him other than farming. They are regular 
church-attendants when possible, and Lydia rarely 
misses a service. She has a most remarkable mem- 
ory and can commit more Bible verses than any 
child in the Sunday-school.” 

Taking Lydia by the hand, the Quakeress said: 
“We must be going, child; I promised thy grand- 
mother we would return early. I am glad I met 
thee. Friend Lillian. Thy face is strangely familiar.” 

“I was thinking the same,” Miss Lillian replied. 

As Lydia and her teacher were walking along, 
the little woman in gray stooped and picked a fallen 
leaf from the grave nearest her and tucked it in 
her bosom. After they had crossed the wall, the 
Quakeress laid her hand on Miss Lillian’s and said: 

“I am glad I met thee, Lydia’s friend.” 

“And I am glad to know you. Will you not 
come home with me and rest and meet Uncle 
Granger? He would be glad to see you, I know. 
He has friends in Philadelphia. I have heard him 
speak of them many times. It was there he went 
to school and afterward studied law with Judge 
Broadbent. Can I not induce you by offering the 
choicest of late Vermont peaches? They have just 
reached perfection.” 

“Nay, nay, my young friend; I thank thee for 


32 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


( 

chy kindness to a stranger, but we must not tarry 
longer. Sister Wilbur will be growing anxious,” 
and, offering her hand to Miss Lillian, am glad 
I met thee.” 

Slowly, the two commenced the return-trip up 
Lebanon way. The sim was hot, but a cool breeze 
swept up the valley. 

“How about your school and books, Lydia?” 

“I just love to go to school,” Lydia replied, clasp- 
ing her thin little brown hands and looking up 
eagerly into her companion’s face, “and I love 
books, too. I have ‘Pilgrim’s Progress’ that used 
to be father’s and Tennyson’s poems. Grandpa 
bought it at Webster’s sale, last year. One cover 
was off, but when Grandma papered the kitchen, 
she gave me some paste and helped me put it on, 
and now it is just as good as new. I just love it. 
I have read it through once. Then, Miss Lillian 
gave me ‘Onward and Upward’ for Christmas. 
Then, there is my geography and history and third 
reader. They are all as good as story-books. And 
there is the Bible, you know, full of the most beauti- 
ful stories.” 

“Does thee like history? You are rather young 
for such advanced studies, don’t you think?” 

“No, ma’am; my teacher says I am her best 
scholar in history and grammar, and it’s just as 
easy for me as can be, and I like spelling, too. I 
have just commenced the first book in Latin.” 

“Is there a class for Latin beginners?” 

“No, ma’am; I just saw the book on teacher’s desk 
with all the funny-looking letters and asked her 
about it, and she told me how it was a different 
language from ours, like German and French. I 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


33 


asked her if I might study it, and she said she 
thought a little girl like me was too young, but that 
she would loan the book to me, and this fall, when 
IMr. Armstrong was here, . he caught me one day 
under the old bench in the comer by . the worm 
fence on north pasture lot, studying, and he asked 
me all about it and said I was a good girl to want 
to know and learn about other languages, and that 
some day it might be of great benefit. Grandma 
says it’s all nonsense filling my head with such a 
heathenish language at my age. What do you 
think about it. ma’am?” 

“If thee enjoys it, dear, and it does not interfere 
with thy other studies, it can do thee no harm.” 

“I never study it until I have all my other studies 
and the chores all done. Then, I just, steal av/ay 
sometimes by myself and study a little while, for 
I don’t want to worry Grandma, for there is so 
much to worry her now anyway. There’s the taxes 
to pay and the interest on the mortgage, and all 
the groceries to buy, and now she is so anxious 
about the winter wood and how she is going to get 
it cut.” 

“How did thy grandfather break his legs?” 

“It was this way. Over in the north, pasture was 
a great beech tree. I used to call it ‘The Sentinel’ 
because it was so stately and big and stood , all 
alone, and the sheep and cattle would always go 
under it for shelter from the hot sun or the stoim. 
In the early summer, there was a terrific thunder- 
storm and lightning stmck it and splintered it; all 
down the trunk and just spoiled it, and. Grandpa 
said he was afraid it would get it again and perhaps 
kill some of the stock; so, one day, Jake had gone 


34 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


down Alden way to the mill and Grandpa took his 
ax and told Grandma he was going to finish Old 
Sentinel and cut it up for fire-wood, the large sticks 
for the fire-place and the smaller for the stove. 
Well, he was gone a long time and it was getting 
late, and still Grandpa did not come. The cows 
came up and Philip and I put them in the yard, 
and Grandma had started supper. Every little 
while, she would go to the kitchen-door, and, shad- 
ing her eyes with her hands, look far toward the 
north pasture. I knew she was worried. 

“By and by, old Patsy came loping toward the 
house, whining, and Grandma almost cried and 
said: ‘Lyddy, yer Grandpa is hurt somewhar off in 
the pasture.' Just then Ben Binger came up the 
west road and asked: ‘Where is Uncle Nat? Thar’s 
goin' ter be er raisin’-bee over ter Hasford’s ter- 
morrer ter git Lem’s bam up, an’ they want him 
ter come.’ 

“ ‘0, Ben, I’m afraid Father’s hurt,’ Grandma 
said. Then she told him about Grandpa’s going to 
the north pasture and about Patsy. Ben said he 
would go and see, and off he started. Well, by and 
by, he came mnning back and hitched up Bess to 
the stone-boat, put on some rye-straw, and we 
went back with hun, and there lay poor Grandpa 
with a great big limb holding him down. 

“Well, Ben finished cutting off the limb where it 
hung and we all helped lift it off and foimd his legs 
were hurt. Ben spread a blanket over the straw, 
and we all three lifted him on the stone-boat. I 
sat on the straw and held his head in my lap. Grand- 
pa said: ‘I guess I’m done for,’ and Grandma said: 
‘No, you’re not; you’re all right,’ and Grandpa just 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


35 


smiled and fell asleep and never woke up until we 
had him on the bed and Ben had gone for the doctor* 
“When the doctor came, he said Grandpa had 
fainted and that it was a mercy for it hurt so to 
be moved around so when your legs are broke. 
No, ma’am, both were not broke, only one, and 
the doctor called the other a compound fracture, 
but I think from what I heard them say it was 
worse than a clean break. Grandpa gets so dis- 
couraged because he can't help with the fall work, 
but Grandma just smiles and says: ‘Why, Nat Wil- 
bur, hain’t you ashamed to complain at trifles.' 
But she worries just the same, and then I had to 
have the fever just when I was needed most.” 

“Who helped take care of you and your grandpa?’* 
“Aunt Mollie Burdick came and helped out. Yes„ 
Aunt Mollie is good, she is. She is what Grandma 
calls ‘a shelter in the time of storm.’ ’’ 

“Is she really thy atmt?’’ 

“No, she is just everybody’s aunt. She belongs 
to the neighborhood and always goes where there’s 
trouble. She made this dress and she spins yam 
and knits and weaves the nicest flannel for our 
petticoats and the men’s every-day shirts. She can 
spin flax, but we can’t raise flax on Lebanon.’’ 

“Who takes such nice care of thy father’s and 
mother’s graves?’’ 

“I do; I just love to do it. Sometimes, teacher 
lets me out at recess, if I have my lessons. My,, 
but it must be nice to have a really, truly mother* 
Grandma is so good, but then you know a really,, 
truly mother must be grand.” 

The Quakeress, under pretense of adjusting her 
bonnet, wiped the moisture from her eyes, and said: 


36 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


“We had better walk a little faster; thy grand- 
mother will be anxious, for we have tarried long.” 
As they walked along, the Quakeress drew her hand 
from her pocket and placed in Lydia’s hand a gold 
piece. “Here, Lydia, when thee goes to Alderson, 
buy something for your grandfather and grand- 
mother and for thy self, that which pleases thee best.” 

“Thank you, but I will ask Grandma first if I 
may keep it,” replied Lydia. “I do hope she will 
let me, for I never had a piece before like this. I 
never even saw one. Do you think it would really 
be enough to buy Grandpa and Grandma and 
Philip each a little present and have enough left 
to buy just one little book and some pencils for 
myself?” 

“I think it would, dear.” 

Dinner was all ready for the table when they 
entered the house. 

“O, Grandpa, are you really going to eat dinner 
with us!” exclaimed Lydia, going to him and nestling 
her hand in his. “Goody, goody! This is better 
than anything in the world except Christmas, unless 
it would be to see you walk once more.” 

“Thet will come in time, girlie,” replied her grand- 
father. 

The table was bountifully supplied with good, 
wholesome, nutritious food. On the old mulberry 
platter lay a round of sweetest home-cured ham, 
flanked with fresh eggs, perfectly fried. There were 
mashed potatoes with cream gravy, new fall ruta- 
bagas, fresh warm biscuit and butter, a glass of 
amber quince jelly, cottage-cheese, and a fresh 
custard pie, and — what at this time seemed a 
luxury a cup of steaming fragrant tea. 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


37 


After doing justice to this tempting meal, the 
little Quakeress went to her room, and falling on 
her knees, murmured: “Heavenly Father, I thank 
thee for all thy blessings.” Rising, she bathed her 
face and hands, rested a while, and passed out into 
the living-room where Aunt Rhue sat quietly with 
folded hands. 

The little Quakeress drew a rocker near and, lay- 
ing her hand on Aunt Rhue’s, said in a low voice: 
“Sister Wilbur, wilt thou tell me of thy children, 
Lydia’s father and mother.” 

“Wall, I declar’, Mrs. Filmore, I’m not given ter 
talkin’ uv family matters ter strangers; but ye hev 
seemed ter take such er notion ter Lyddy, I’ve er 
mind ter tell yer ther hull story.” Aunt Rhue sat 
quiet as though in deep revery for some time; then, 
rising from her chair without a word, she passed 
out of the room. It was a long time, it , seemed to 
the Quakeress, before she returned. At last, her 
slow step was heard and she entered the room. In 
her hand, she carried a small bundle, tied with a 
faded blue ribbon. Slowly, she drew the little 
splint rocker directly in front of her guest and 
sat down with a deep sigh. Then, smoothing her 
clean gingham apron across her knees, she pro- 
ceeded to untie and. open the package. A hush as 
of the sanctuary pervaded. Aunt Rhue had entered 
her Gethsemane. Carefully, she unfolded some in- 
fant clothing and as carefully smoothed out, one 
by one, the tiny garments. 

Outside, was heard the hiom of bees in the late 
autumn simshine ; -Tabby, the tortoise-shell -colored 
cat, was stretched out lazily on a braided rug in the 
sunshine by the open door; and all nature seamed 


38 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


at peace. The little Quakeress patiently waited 
for Aunt Rhue’s story. It would be sacrilege to 
disturb her. 

At last, she looked up and said: “Pardon, me 
ma’am, but it’s er leetle harder than I expected. 
It wuz er cold, blusterin’ night, nigh on to seven 
o’clock; Father hed jest come in frum ther bam 
whar he’d been unhamessin’ old Bess; fer he’d jest 
come up frum Alden. He’d been ter ther grocery 
an’ post, an’ wuz er leetle late, owin’ ter some biz- 
ness. Ez he come in, he said: ‘Mother, it’s goin’ 
ter be er real nor’easter on Lebanon temight an’ 
ther wind is blowin’ hail Columby. We’ll hev all 
ther snow we’ll want fer Thanksgivin’.’ Ther table 
wuz all sot ready fer supper an’ I quick went erbout 
puttin’ on the vittles. Father hed washed an’ dried 
his hands an’ wuz jest settin’ down, when er thump 
come erginst ther door. I paid no ’tention, jest 
kept pourin’ ther tea an’ er talkin’ ter Father, when 
thump it went ergin. I stopped an’ listened; then 
stepped over an opened ther door. Thar stood a 
yoimg woman with a bimdle in her arms, all covered 
with snow. I wuz scared an’ said: ‘Land a massy, 
who ever ye air, come right in.’ She looked up at 
me, her big eyes er shinin’ an’ said: “Mother, Oh 
Mother, I’ve come home ter die.’ 

“Wall, ma’am, I wuz skairt most ter death, 
knowin’ thet ther only womankind thet ever called 
me mother wuz my leetle Emily thet died years 
ergo with scarlet fever. Them words went right 
ter my heart. I drew ther poor young thing in 
an’, puttin’ my arms eround her, led her ter ther 
lounge, ther same one ez is stan^n’ over thar. 
Wall, I took off her bonnet, an’ opened her 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


39 


cloak, an’ thar wuz this bundle an’ er leetle 
infant.” 

Aunt Rhue paused and looked past her guest far 
out the door. She was living in the past. Then 
she resumed: “Yes, ma’am, er real, livin’ leetle 
baby, jest er smilin’ in its sleep. Ther poor girl 
began ter sob an’ cry. I took ther baby an’ laid 
it on ther foot uv ther lounge with er piller er two 
ter keep it frum rollin’ off, an’ said: Tore dear, 
don’t cry. Yer all right an’ arter ye drink er cup 
er hot tea an’ get somethin’ in yer stomach, we’ll 
her yer story.’ 

“Then, I jest smoothed her hair an’ kissed her 
an’ she sobbed all ther more. Father set like er 
stun man an’ all ther time I kep’ thinkin’: Tore 
child, she is some runaway frum some asylum er 
other an’ don’t know what she’s talkin’ erbout.’ I 
told Father ter set another cup an’ plate an’ fetch 
er chair, which he did, sayin’: ‘Come, Mother, 
bring ther pore child ter ther table.’ By this 
time, I had got warm, dry clothes on her, some 
lamb’s- wool stockin’ s uv mine thet wuz all sizes 
ter big fer her, an’ put my best jersey eround her 
an’ led her ter ther table. She sot down an’ layin’ 
her head on ther table, jest cried out an’ sobbed an’ 
sobbed. I put my arm eround her an’ told her it 
wuz all right ter cry ef she wanted ter, an’ I smoothed 
her beautiful wavy hair an’ talked ter her ther best 
I knew how, fer my heart ached fer her in her 
misery, whatever it wuz. 

“Finally, she quieted down.” Here, Aunt Rhue 
carried the comer of her apron to her eyes. “Wall, 
she dmnk er cup uv hot tea an’ I coaxed her ter 
eat er few mouthfuls, but she simply could not. 


40 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


She jest set thar, quietlike, with her big, bright 
eyes lookin’ clear across ther room ter ther lounge 
whar her baby wuz. She spoke no words only ter 
answer some questions. After supper, I helped her 
up, fer she wuz exhausted, an’, on our way ter ther 
rockin’-chair, she jest went right down in er dead 
faint on ther floor.” 

Aunt Rhue took off her glasses and the far away 
look came into her eyes again, and the little Quaker- 
ess looked on in sympathetic silence. “I do declar’, 
I don’t know what possessed me ter git out this 
bundle an’ tell this story ter yer. Can’t be very 
entertainin’.” 

“Sister Wilbur, I am deeply interested and am 
grateful to thee for the telling. Please proceed.” 

Aunt Rhue sat with folded hands, and, without 
raising her eyes, proceeded: “Wall, Father an’ I 
lifted her on to my bed in ther recess yonder. Then, 
I told him ter harness Bess an’ go quick fer old 
Doctor Thornton an’ ter hurry, fer I wuz erlone. 
He put on his coat an’ comforter an’ rushed out 
inter ther storm without any cap. He never waited 
ter harness, jest threw a blanket on ther boss an’ 
I soon heard him go thumpin’ down Alden way. I 
got ther camphire an’ put er few drops in water an’ 
give it to her, an’ rubbed some on her forehead, 
an’ give it ter her ter smell. Finally, she opened 
them beautiful bright eyes an’ said: ‘Oh, Mother, 
Robert s mother, is it really true I am here with 
you all right in Robert’s own home!’ 

“Then, holdin’ my hand in both uv her’n, she 
told me how she hed cared fer my boy when he 
wuz wounded ther first time an’ how they hed 
learned ter love each other devotedly an’ how her 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


41 


high-falutin’ mother would not low Robert ter go 
ter her home because he wuz only er pore soldier, 
an’ she talked uv a few other things that is only 
fer Father an’ me ter know. She said we must not 
open this letter until ther New-year’s arter Lydia 
wuz ten years old. Her marriage-lines air here, too, 
an’ they’re all right. Ther leetle gal hez no occasion 
ter blush. She kin hold up her leetle head with ther 
best uv ’em. She said her name wuz Margaret 
Lydia an’ thet ther letter would tell ther whole 
story. 

“No, ma’am, we don’t know one word that’s in 
thet letter. We must wait patient till Lyddy is ten 
year old an’ the New-year arter. Queer, wasn’t it, 
thet she put it New-year arter instead uv on her 
tenth birthday; but we air goin’ ter do jest ez she 
asked us ter do, pore gal. Lyddy will soon be ten, 
somewhar near Thanksgivin’ time, fer she wuz er 
leetle tiny baby when she come ter me, an’ I hev 
waited mighty patient fer ther time ter come ter 
solve this ’ere mystery. But ez I said, we’ll wait 
ther full time, accordin’ ter promise. 

“By an’ by, ther doctor come in with Father, an’ 
by this time, ther snow wuz cornin’ down thick an’ 
fast. I well remember fur, when they opened ther 
door, er great gust swept in with ’em. All this time 
thet blessed baby wuz sleepin’. Old Doctor Thorn- 
ton took off his things an’ warmed his hands, an’ 
cornin’ over to ther bed, asked: ‘Wall, Mrs. Wilbur, 
how’s yer patient?’ 

“ ‘She’s patient enough,’ said I, ‘an’ you’d better 
git down ter bizness.’ He looked her all over an’ 
asked her some questions, an’ I found out the baby 
wuz nigh on to four weeks old. He walked slowlike 


42 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


with his hands locked tergether behind, over ter 
ther table an’ prepared some kind uv drops an’ 
give ’em ter her. Then, when she closed her eyes, 
he beckoned fer me ter come over by ther fire-place. 
‘Mrs. Wilbur,’ says he, ‘ther young woman is goin’ 
ter die. Nothin’ kin save her.’ 

“ ‘Die,’ sez I. 

“ ‘Yes,’ sez he, ‘she kin live but er short time*’ 
Then he asked me some questions erbout who she 
wuz, an’ I spoke up, hurtlike, an’ sez I: ‘She air 
Robert’s wife. Doctor Thornton, my own son 
Robert’s wife, from Washington, an’ this leetle babe 
is my own granddaughter,’ an’ sez I: ‘Doctor, I 
want yer ter tell ther neighbors that Robert’s wife 
hez just got home. She couldn’t git here in time fer 
ther funeral on account uv expectin’ this leetle 
baby.’ 

“ ‘I will do ez ye say,’ sez he; ‘this air a mighty 
sad thing, Mrs. Wilbur, but I would like ter know 
who she is an’ who her people air; but,’ sez he, ‘she 
ez er lady all right, through an’ through.’ 

“ ‘Wall,’ sez I, ‘she air an honest wife; her mar- 
riage-lines air all right here, an’ maybe some day 
you’ll know more ef ye keep er quiet tongue in yer 
head.’ He smiled an’ rubbed his hands tergether an’ 
said: ‘All right, Mrs. Wilbur,’ an’ he’s kept his word 
ter this very day. 

“Wall, ter make er long story short, ther next 
day she died — jest fell ersleep, jest ez ther sun 
wuz goin’ down. It hed been crisp an’ cold on 
Leb’non thet day an’ Father an’ I wuz all erlone. 
Ther doctor hed been thar an’ did all he could. She 
hed laid quiet like all day. Late in ther afternoon, 
she looked up an’ asked fer her baby. Father 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


43 


brought ther leetle one an’ put it in her arms an’ 
she clasped both uv her arms eround it an’ a tear 
stole down her cheek. She never said a word, but 
jest kissed her an’ kissed her an’ then said: ‘Pore 
little orphan.’ Then, she opened her eyes an’ looked 
up an’ asked Father ef he an’ I would kiss her jest 
once fer Robert’s sake.” 

Here, Aunt Rhue paused and took off her spec- 
tacles, and, after wiping her eyes, she continued: 
“We jest broke right down an’ cried an’ kissed her 
over an’ over ag’in, an’ I smoothed her hair an’ 
Father patted an’ smoothed her hands. All ther 
time, she wuz kind o’ talkin’ like ter herself an’ we 
heard her say ‘Mother’ an’ ‘fergive’ an’ ‘baby.’ 
Then, she lay quietlike, a while. When she looked 
up erg’in, she asked Father ter read ther Scripter. 
Father got down ther old family Bible an’ read 
best he could fer tears, part uv ther sixth chapter 
uv Matthew. Then, she asked him ter read ther 
twenty-third Psalm. He tried ter but broke right 
down in ther middle uv it. Course, I hed ter finish. 

“Then, she seemed ter chirk up er leetle an’ said: 
‘Dear Father an’ Mother, Robert’s father an’ 
mother, how good you’ve been ter me. Take good 
care uv our baby,’ an’ thet her name wuz Margaret 
Lydia ther same ez hers, but ter call her Lyddy; 
thet, on New-year’s day, arter she wuz ten years old, 
ter open an’ read this letter an’ then send it ter ther 
address we’d find inside. The marriage-certificate 
she showed ter Father an’ I, only we didn’t see 
her last name — she didn’t want us to. Then, she 
put it in ther envelope with her own hands, an’ 
Father sealed it an’ there it is ter this day. But 
with her dyin’ breath, she said she wuz Robert’s 


44 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


wedded wife an’ we believed her, an’ we’ve never 
tried ter pry inter her secret since an’ never will 
till ther proper time comes.” 

Aunt Rhue wiped her spectacles again as a tear 
stole down her cheek. “Her dyin’ face wuz like an 
angel’s an’ I want ter tell yer it wuz ther hardest 
thing I ever done, ma’am, ter witness thet pore 
child leavin’ her leetle baby an’ us — an’ as fer 
Father, ther way he looked jest scairt me. He did 
everything I told him, but never er word. When 
it wuz all over, I jest slipped ter my knees an’ 
prayed ez I never done before. Here wuz er leetle 
human soul brought ter us away off on Leb’non ter 
love an’ cherish an’ raise. Jest think uv it! Ther 
great responsibility I was facin’. Well, first I knew, 
Father wuz on his knees beside me an’ he put his 
two arms around me an’ said; ‘She’s asleep. Mother, 
but we’ve got Robert’s leetle baby, bone uv our 
bone, flesh uv our flesh. Ther Lord giveth an’ ther 
Lord has taken away, but we’ll trust Him still.’ 
Then ther baby stirred an’, ez Father raised me up, 
he said: ‘We’ll do ther best we kin fer Robert’s 
child.’ 

“No one ever knew what thet Thanksgivin’ meant 
ter us, but we wuz glad ter hev ther dear leetle tot, 
an’ so thankful Robert’s wife lived ter reach home. 
She died, ma’am, uv er broken heart. Pore child, 
travelin’ eround all alone, remote frum ev’ry friend, 
isolated, so ter speak, er stranger, with nothin’ but 
er stranger’s roof ter shelter her in her great ex- 
tremity. Not er single tie uv blood thet boimd her 
to emother near her. But, thank God, Lyddy lived 
an’ is here a livin’ fact ter prove my story. She 
gits cur ’us sometimes erbout her mother, but I’ve 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


45 


felt justified in withholdin’ ther facts in her case, 
ther pore leetle gal. The searchlight uv memory, 
ma’am, ez er hard thing sometimes. 

“Yes, ma’am, it wuz my hands, with Father’s 
help, thet washed an’ shrouded ther pore wasted 
frame, fer we made up our minds thet no one should 
criticize one single thing erbout our Robert’s wife, 
pore gal ; fer she hed made er big an’ noble fight 
ter git ter us an’ ter right the birth uv Robert’s 
leetle baby, God love her. Ez I stood by her thet 
cold, bleak night on Leb’non, my thought went 
racin’ back ter when Robert wuz jest sech er leetle 
helpless baby, an’ right thar, ma’am, link arfter 
link wuz forged in thet chain thet hez bound thet 
leetle baby ter us, an’ we’ve tried ter live up ter 
ther promises we made, thet bitter, sad night, beside 
ther pore dear child thet hed traveled an’ toiled 
through ther storm ter reach us. 

“Ter change ther subject, er leetle, I want ter 
speak my mind thet somewhar, some one is ter 
blame, radically -ter blame, fer her sufferin’ an’ 
death, an’ I’d hate ter be in thar shoes at her 
Judgment Day. Some folks blame ther Almighty 
fer all thar trouble, but thar’s er good bit laid ter 
Him thet He’s not ter blame fer. Why, I’d rether 
live all erlone, right her on Leb’non, erway frum 
ev’ry livin’ soul, an’ hev er clear conscience, than 
ter live in luxury like ther one I suppose disowned 
thet pore, dear gal fer lovin’ an’ marryin’ an honest, 
upright man though he wuz pore. Don’t yer think 
so, ma’am?” 

“Yes, my friend, but maybe thee judges them, 
her friends, too harshly. Thee does not know how 
repentant they may be, and I feel, sure thy love 


46 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


and extreme kindness to thy son’s wife and little 
one will be fully appreciated, and you will be re- 
warded some time for it.” 

“I know emough erbout it an’ I have my opinion 
erbout er heartless woman thet would deliberately 
break her own child’s heart an’ set her adrift.” 

“No doubt, her friends have grieved sorely about 
her. It will all come right some time. Thee must 
not doubt the justice of the Lord, Sister Wilbur. 

” ‘Though the mills of God grind slowly, 

Yet they grind exceedingly small; 

Though with patience he stands waiting. 
With exactness grinds He all.’ ” 

“Wall, ma’am, thet sounds mighty nice, an’ I 
shore do hope thet Lyddy will git ther grist thet 
rightfully belongs ter her; but it’s gittin’ late an’ I 
must hurry an’ finish. We laid her in ther old 
church graveyard beside our only boy who hed 
been buried thar erbout six months before. It 
were a ten days’ wonder ter ther neighbors, but we 
jest held up our heads an’ made out we knew she 
were cornin’ ter spend Thanksgivin’ with us. Now, 
thet is all I hev ter tell yer, an’, ez I said before, 
I am wonderin’ whatever possessed me ter tell all 
this ter a stranger.” 

“I thank thee. Sister Wilbur, more than I can 
express. It is as a sealed book. I will not mention 
it.” 

Carefully and lovingly. Aunt Rhue refolded and 
tied up the little garments without another word. 
She was still living in the past. 

Rising and gently crossing the room, the Quaker- 
ess passed out the west door, down the stone steps, 
and followed the little path to the gate. Through 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


47 


it, she went on, and, crossing the road, went through 
the open bar way. Entering the old orchard, she 
followed a little path through deep silvery orchard 
grass, crossed a fence through an opening and on 
through the pasture down to a thicket of dogwood 
and sweet birch, and, a little farther on, she came 
to a cool shady spot, where, surrounded by stone 
and moss-covered logs, there bubbled forth a spring. 
Near-by, the last Jack-in-the-pulpits nodded their 
faded heads and a late yellow wood-violet raised 
its tiny face to the gaze of the intruding stranger. 

She sat down, while the ghosts of past memories 
glided swiftly by, awakening both sad and tender 
thoughts of the dim past. Here, she communed. 
Her heart, filled with tenderness, caused by Aunt 
Rhue’s story, found outlet in tears. As she raised 
her head, a butterfly, delicately marked lavender 
and black, with a touch of gold, fluttered from a 
branch above her and lazily winged its way out of 
sight. It was here the woman entered into a pos- 
sible realization of her desire. Rising, she slowly 
retraced her steps and soon entered the farmhouse 
and proceeded to make preparation for her journey 
the next day. 


CHAPTER II. 

“Hurry, Mother, hand me my knapsack and let 
me go. My Colonel will be wondering what has 
kept me so long, and St. Alban will be waiting 
for me in our tent. There is much to get ready 
for to-morrow. Just hand me my gun and ITl be 


48 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


off. One more kiss, Mother mine, and take good 
care of Bess, the colt, and the new Jersey calf. 
Good-by, Mother, let me go; I must be off.” And 
the poor, emaciated, fever-stricken young soldier 
would repeatedly try to arise from his cot. 

“No, no, my friend,” said a quiet voice. “Thee 
can not get up. The doctor said thee must keep 
quiet. Please take this; it will make thy fever 
better and help thee rest. I will look after Bess, 
the colt,” and thus did the sweet-faced young nurse 
quietly woo the delirious soldier back to sleep. Re- 
peatedly, did she return to his cot during the hot 
August night and sooth his wild deliriiun. She could 
not remain by his side, for many others needed the 
blessed ministrations of the brave volunteer nurses. 

During the week, there had been a trainload of 
sick and wounded soldiers rushed into Washington 
from the battle of Antietam. Among them was 
Robert Wilbur, a farmer-boy scarcely twenty-one 
years old, from the mountain-region of Vermont. 
He was badly wounded in the shoulder and was 
delirious with fever and pain. His nurse was a 
volunteer young woman from one of the best homes 
in Washington, a demure little Quakeress in plain 
gray gown; a large white apron and a kerchief of 
snowy white crossed her breast. But better than 
all was the great loving heart and willing hands 
to help relieve the suffering around her. 

“Good morning,” she greeted, as she laid her 
firm, cool hand on his burning brow. “How does 
thee feel?” and she quietly bathed his face with the 
cool water. “Here is some fresh buttermilk right 
from Aunt Chloe’s' churn, and she knows just how 
to fix it.” 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


49 


“Yes, Mother, I will,” raved the young man, try- 
ing to get up; “I’ll be there in a minute. I’ve just 
finished the chores and the wood is all ready. I’ll 
wash my hands; then I’ll hold the candle and read 
while you spin. Where is Father? Has he come, 
and did he bring the paper. No, Mother, I haven’t 
forgotten the little prayer you taught me and I — 
I — 111 say it before I go to sleep. ‘Our Father, 
who art in heaven.’ O, Mother,” trying to raise his 
hand, “you help me say it, ‘Forgive us our tres- 
passes.’ Do you think. Mother, that God will ever 
forgive me for leaving Lebanon — leaving you and 
Father and the dear old home. But the flag, the 
dear old flag, see it float. Mother? Look, look how 
it ripples in the breeze. Dear Old Glory, how I 
love it! The stars and stripes — you know. Mother, 
I never did anything to displease you before.” 

“Hush, hush, dear; thee must take thy nourish- 
ment. I will bathe thy hands and brow and make 
thee feel better.” 

“ ‘Dear,’ did you say ‘dear,’ Mother? It’s a long 
time since you said that, and will you kiss me just 
once to show you forgive me for leaving home and 
enlisting — just once. Mother.” 

The young woman stood quiet with folded arms, 
watching the sufferer. Tears glistened in her eyes; 
then, bending, she pressed her lips to the young 
man’s forehead. 

“Thank you. Mother, but you never kissed me 
there before. ‘Thy kingdom come. Thy will be 
done,’ amen,” and he quietly drifted off to sleep. 

“Well, Miss Margaret, how are you and how is 
your patient this morning?” asked the cheery voice 
of Doctor Wilsey. “I do believe he is better. See 


50 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


the tiny smile hovering around his lips, and I de- 
clare his brow is almost moist. You are a bom 
nurse, and, if young Wilbur lives, he owes his life 
to you. Now, plenty of nourishment, sponging and 
good cheer is all the treatment needed here. We 
will change the dressings and cleanse the wound this 
evening when I make my rounds. How is young 
Hunter? It makes even my old heart ache to see 
all these young men mowed down just as they are 
beginning to live.” 

“Thy patient, Hunter, Dr. Wilsey, has gone 
home. He passed away at sunrise. Thee had 
better arrange to send his remains home. I have 
the name of the town here, and if thee will be kind 
enough to mail these letters to his mother and sweet- 
heart, thee will be doing a great service to both 
the living and the dead.” 

“You are a remarkable young woman,” the 
Doctor remarked, “and you must remember to take 
care of yourself. Your mother gave me a good 
scolding yesterday for keeping you here. I told 
her you were a second Nightingale and my right- 
hand supporter, and that I could not spare you. 
She said I should box your ears and send yoi; home, 
but you are far too valuable for me to do that. All 
I ask is that you take the necessary sleep, three 
square meals a day, and your exercise, and we will 
show them what we can do. It is the most blessed 
work. Miss Margaret, a human being can be en- 
engaged in.” 

“Never mijid Mother, Doctor; she is a dear after 
all. Tell her thy nurse is all right and please ask 
her to send more bandages, broth, and wine, and 
I will thank thee, and do think occasionally of thy 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


51 


own self. These are terrible times. Does thee 
think thy patient, Wilbur, will live?” 

“Yes, if we can pull him through the crisis, which 
is not far off. He has a good fighting chance. Be 
sure and have plenty of hot water and bottles 
ready to fill and see to it that there is sufficient 
stimulant at hand.” 

“Yes, sir, I am ready,” murmured the sufferer. 
“Color bearer, did you say? Oh, that is too great 
an honor — to carry the stars and stripes — but 
I will do my best by Old Glory. Yes, Colonel, give 
it to me. Poor fellow, to be shot down! I will do 
my best. Oh, God, boys, hold me up!” panted the 
sufferer. “Quick, quick, the rest must see the flag 
till the last, and I told the Colonel I would do my 
best. My God, Ben, I am shot again, but you must 
hold it up. Hold up the flag, Ben, hold it up! You 
can’t, you say. Then I will — it must not drag,” 
and Wilbur tried to raise his arm. 

“There, there, I will hold the flag, but thee must 
take this. Thy fever runs high,” and, slipping an 
arm under his head, the nurse put the cooling draft 
to his lips. “The doctor says thee will be all right 
if thee takes thy nourishment well and keeps quiet.” 

The young man opened his eyes and looked up 
in a dazed manner, took the drink, and dropped 
back exhausted on his pillow. “ ‘Thy will be done 
on earth as it is in heaven,’ ” he murmured again. 
“Do you remember how little sister, Emily, and I 
used to kneel at your side and say, ‘Now I lay me,’ 
‘This I ask for Jesus’s sake’? Kiss me again, as 
you used to, and good night. Mother. Don’t forget 
to tuck us in bed. It’s growing so cold.” 

Again, the young woman touched her lips to his 


52 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


forehead and again he was soon sleeping the sleep 
of utter exhaustion. After making her rounds, she 
returned to find her patient lapsed into uncon- 
sciousness. The dull gray countenance alarmed 
her. She quickly summoned another nurse, and 
they put up a stiff fight with death. For several 
hours, the partially unconscious form lay as one 
whose spirit had fled. 

Just as .the sun in all its glory sank oyer the hill- 
tops, there was a faint flutter of the eyelids, then 
with an effort, they opened and closed, a weak 
smile wreathed his lips, and he was asleep. For 
several hours, he slept quietly. On one of the nurse’s- 
rounds, she found him with eyes open; and he 
whispered: “Where am I?” 

She put her Anger to her lips and shook her head; 
then she said: “You are all right; but you have been 
very ill for days and must keep absolutely quiet.” 


CHAPTER III. 

After the supper had been cleared away, the 
dishes washed and the hearth in the living-room 
neatly brushed with the speckled turkey-wing — 
for the chilly autiunn evening necessitated a pine 
knot Are — Lydia came skipping in from the kitchen, 
exclaiming : 

“Granchna, we have the hickory and beech kernels 
all picked out, and Grandpa was such a help. There 
is a whole cupful. Will you please help me with 
the maple candy so our guest can have some?” 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


53 


“La, child, yer know whar ther maple is. Jest 
take ther hatchet an’ break ther cakes. Moisten 
an’ put ’em on ther fire ter melt. Don’t be stingy. 
Take all ye want an’, when it’s melted an’ begins 
ter boil, call me an’ I’ll be thar ter help ye out.’’ 

As Lydia disappeared, her grandmother said: 
“She’s ther light uv this house, she is, with them 
quiet, womanly ways. Sometimes, when I look at 
her, it jest makes my heart ache ter think uv all 
she’s deprived uv. No mother, no father, only us 
two half-womout old folks ter mingle with. Of 
course, Philip is some company; but she’s happy. 
She’s queerlike, with all her whims an’ fancies an’ 
dreams, an’ no mistake. I often find myself won- 
derin’ how it’ll all come out.’’ 

When the candy was finished, and Uncle Nat 
carefully returned to his bed, Lydia was putting 
the things to rights in the kitchen, after which she 
and Philip sat down to play a game. 

Aunt Rhue changed her apron and returned to 
her guest, remarking that “ther stars wuz out by 
the million an’ she guessed it would be fine ter- 
morrow.’’ She drew her little rocker to the cheery 
fire and sat down. The Quakeress drew her chair 
a little nearer and looking up at Aunt Rhue, asked: 

“Does thee feel like telling me about thy brave 
boy. Sister Wilbur?’’ 

Aunt Rhue arose, crossed the room to a little 
stand in the comer, lifted her knitting-basket and, 
bringing it to the fireside, sat down opposite her 
guest. Taking off her glasses, she wiped them on 
the comer of her apron, adjusted them carefully, 
smoothed out her apron, picked up her knitting, 
and said : 


54 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


“Yes; ez I hev told ye so much erbout ther family 
hist’ry, I’ll tell yer erbout Robert. He wuz er 
proper good boy frum er leetle shaver, jest crazy 
erbout books. Why, he’d ruther hev er book er 
picture ter look at than er stick uv candy, an’ candy 
wuz er scarce article in them days. Wall, ez soon 
ez he wuz big emough, he went ter school reg’lar, 
walkin’ over er mile each way ev’ry day, trudgin’ 
erlong with his leetle dinner-baskit an’ his precious 
first reader, an’ when ther weather wuz fine, he 
always led his leetle sister, Em’ly, by ther hand 
ev’ry step uv ther way. 

“Yes, ma’am, I hed a leetle girl, but she died 
when she wuz ten years old. 

“He would help Father all he could with ther 
chores, night an’ mornin’ in ther winter, an’ work 
like er leetle nailor in ther summer. Arter a while, 
he outgrew ther district-school, so we pinched 
erlong an’ paid his schoolin’ down ter Alderson. 

“No, ma’am, I don’t know who he took arter fer 
so much book-lamin’. I think he must hev stmck 
back somewhar fer it. Ye see, his Grandfather 
Wilbur wuz er big lawyer back in Boston an’ finally 
er judge, an’ his great-uncle, Abner Wilbur, wuz ez 
fine er preacher ez ye’d wish ter hear. Hev I ever 
heard him ? Sartin, many er time an’ er good many 
Allisons wuz great fer book-lamin’, too. Yes; my 
maiden name wuz Allison an’ I’ve no occasion ter 
blush fer it. Ther Allisons didn’t mn ter lawin’ er 
preachin’, but, ef any one wanted or needed his 
body mended er a good physic, ther Allisons took 
no back seat. Yes, surgeons an’ doctors seemed ter 
mn in our fam’ly fer generations. 

“Now, ma’am, I think yer gittin’ a leetle per- 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


55 


sonal. I didn’t set out ter tell my hist’ry, but 
Robert’s. 

“Robert worked hard fer his schoolin’ an’ wuz 
happy in doin’ it. He would sit by ther hour an’ 
hold er candle fer me ter spin er reel by, an’, in 
his other hand, he’d hold er book an’ study. Some- 
times, ef it wuz hist’ry, he would read it out ter 
me an’ very interestin’ it wuz, too. He would be 
up cold winter momin’s an’ help Father feed an' 
water ther stock, an’ alius fill ther kitchen wood-box 
ter ther very top so ez I wouldn’t hev ter go out. 
Saturday, he’d pitch in an’ help with ther huskin’ 
er go ter mill, er snake logs fer fire-wood. Wall, 
he’d jest work fnim early dawn till bedtime. 

“All this time, year arter year, ther expense fer 
books, clothing, and other things — he used ter 
call ’em incidentals — crept up so he got purty well 
discouraged ther last year. It jest seemed ez though 
everything under canopy accumulated thet year ter 
try ever’body. Ther new township corduroy road 
wuz built an’ we either hed ter give time er money 
an’ thet wuz ther year ther hill-orchard back thar 
wuz set out. Ye see, time wuz money with us an’, 
come ter think uv it, we lost er yearlin’ thet fall, too. 

“One Saturday, we three wuz talkin’ over mat- 
ters an’ Father told Robert if he wuz so sot on 
lamin’ he might cut er few giant hemlocks an’ er 
couple uv choice curly maple trees (he had ’em 
marked) an’ snake ’em down Shasta way ter ther 
saw-mill. He reckoned they would jest erbout even 
up accounts fer what Robert hed done fer him. 
Talk erbout joy! I thought thet boy would faint, 
he got so white. Wall, he wuz erbout ther tickledest 
uv any one I ever see. He hollered ‘Hurra!’ an’ 


56 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


grabbed me an’ hugged me until I erbout spilt over 
ther custard in ther pie I wuz makin’ fer dinner. 
Then, he went over quietlike ter Father, an’, layin’ 
his hand on his shoulder, said, an’ his voice trembled 
like: ‘Ye air ther best father er boy ever hed,’ an’ 
Father asked: ‘How erbout my boy?’ 

“Talk erbout work! I never saw anything like 
it. Late an’ early, he wuz eternally at it. Finally, 
ther last year come. Thet wuz ther hardest — ther 
close uv ther course, endin’ with graduation. They 
didn’t hev so much ceremony them days, but ther 
wuz considerable extry expense, but I won’t dwell 
on thet — thet wuz between Father an’ me. He 
didn’t quite approve uv some things but, with er 
leetle coaxin’, I alius won him over. 

“Robert hed hoarded ev’ry cent. He wuz a 
conscientious student, ma’am, an’ stood high in his 
classes. I think them perfessors must hev thought 
so fer when graduation time come, they made him 
vale — something. O, yes, valedictorian, thet’s ther 
very word. 

“Robert would hev it thet Father an’ I must go 
ter them graduatin’ exercises; so Father got Lem 
Edwards ter look arter ther place an’ we arranged 
ter go. Robert wuz delighted. His eyes jest shone 
ez he stood an’ delivered his piece an’ when ther 
perfessors come an’ shook hands with us, they said : 
‘Ye hev a noble son an’ one uv ther best-principled 
young men in our school.’ 

“Then, when his name wuz read frum ther honor- 
roll, Father said thet more than paid fer all he’d 
done fer him. 

“Certainly, ma’am, all this hed cost sacrifice, 
an’ many ther late hours I sot, knittin’ mittens 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


57 


an’ sale-socks; but I never counted it sacrifice; I 
counted it er privilege; fer what wuz thet com- 
pared ter our boy bein’ well an’ happy? Them 
years hed changed Robert frum er lad uv seventeen 
ter ther very edge uv manhood. He hed grown tall an’ 
broad-shouldered an’ handsomelike, ef I do say it. 

“Yes, Lyddy, come in an’ hev yer good night. 

“Yes, ma’am, all these hard knocks an’ heart- 
hunger arter book-knowledge hed sort uv drawn 
out all ther good ther wuz in him. Our preacher 
told Father an’ me one day, when he wuz makin’ 
his rounds, sez he: ‘Yer son, Robert, is er son ter 
be proud uv. He hez a breadth an’ depth uv char- 
acter very unusual an’ you’ll hear uv him some day 
beside on Leb’non.’ 

“Wall, no one could work harder than Father an’ 
Robert did thet year uv 1861. They felled trees 
an’ cleared stumps an’ burned fallows, broke up 
new ground, an’ done er lot uv mighty hard work. 
All this time, Robert wuz thinkin’ uv goin’ ter 
college in er year er two. Father didn’t approve uv 
it much, but said nothin’. Erbout this time, ther 
war wuz goin’ on an’ Robert wuz so interested he 
could hardly wait fer ther papers. Then come 
ther draftin’ in 1862, an’ ermung ther men drafted 
in this section wuz Squire Granger. He come ter 
Father an’ offered him five hundred dollars ter go 
in his place. We all said no. Then Father said: 
‘See here; I might ez well take ther money an’ go, 
fer, in er few weeks, thar’ll be ernother draft; then 
likely I’d hev ter go.’ Wall, he went in Squire 
Granger’s place an’ in er few months wuz home fer 
good, ’cause his trigger-finger wuz blown off an’ 
his leg badly wounded. 


58 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


“All this time, Robert worked ther farm an’ we 
got erlong good except thet Father couldn’t do 
much. Then come ther call fer volunteers. Robert 
wuz jest crazy ter go, but we wouldn’t hear ter it. 
He talked uv it an’ it’s great necessity night an’ 
day. Wall, ter make er long story short, he jest 
left Leb’non an’ went ter Bolton an’ enlisted. 

“Ye see, it wuz this way: when President Lin- 
coln’s second call fer 300,000 men come, why, 
Robert wuz almost beside himself. Ther crops wuz 
all in an’ ev’rything on ther farm wuz in prime con- 
dition.’’ 

After a few moments’ silence. Aunt Rhue resinned 
her story. “I hev often thought since, ma’am, thet 
Robert aimed ter hev ev’rything ship-shape before 
he left. 

“Yer see, erbout this time, ther Army uv ther 
Potomac, ez Robert called it, wuz jest fightin’ fer 
dear life, fer thet ’ere General Lee wuz jest bent on 
destroyin’ it an’ it sure wuz erbout ther bloodiest 
time uv ther hull war; an’ when ther news come 
erbout ther terrible fightin’ at Malvern Hill — I 
think thet’s ther name — an’ ther terrible campaign 
erginst Richmond, an’ how President Lincoln, instid 
uv givin’ in ter discouragement up an’ called fer 
them 300,000 new men — why, Robert couldn’t 
stand it any longer; so he jest up an’ left — who 
could blame ther boy, God love him? Not I. 

“Yes, ma’am, them were terrible times them days; 
an’ Father an’ I hev been sorry more than once 
thet we didn’t both put our arms eround our only 
boy an’ send him off with our blessin’. Yes, it 
wuz hard.’’ 

Here, Aunt Rhue paused, picked up the hem of 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


59 


her apron, and folded and unfolded it; then wiped 
her eyes and answered her guest; “No, ma’am, he 
never got er cent. He wuz no substitute. He wuz 
er volimteer an’ went ez er man should. Thar 
isn’t much more ter tell. He wuz gon nigh tew 
years an’ then he wuz sent home in his coffin with 
ther stars an’ stripes he loved so well wrapped 
eround him — Old Glory, he used ter call it.” 
Aunt Rhue wiped the moisture from her glasses 
as a tear stole down her cheek. “On his coffin-plate 
wuz these words: ‘Col. Robert Wilbur, died in the 
discharge of duty to his country and his fellowmen.’ 
I hev ther plate; would yer like ter see it?’’ 

“No, I thank thee,’’ said the Quakeress, sobbing. 
“Thy son was a good son to thee, Sister Wilbur, 
and a brave soldier.’’ Rising, she took her candle 
and, bidding her hostess good night, went to her 
room. 


CHAPTER IV. 

After the house was quiet and every one in bed, 
Uncle Nat lay for a long time, pondering over the 
events of the last two days and especially thinking 
of the little Quakeress who had prolonged her stay 
over another night, and just what had brought her 
to Lebanon. 

“Tired out, I s’pose, needed the rest, ez she says. 
Wall, she’s er mighty smart woman fer her years,” 
he mused, “an’ seems ter take er likin’ ter Lyddy. 
I’m glad she does, pore leetle gal; she’s kind er h^ 


60 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


er hard row ter hoe sence I’ve been laid up. I 
must chirk up er bit fer her sake an’ git out uv here 
ez quick ez I kin. I kin shell ther com fer her fowl 
an’ crack ther nuts an’ pick out ther kernels an’ 
thet will bring er smile, an’ thar’s lots I kin do ter 
help Mother now I kin set up. By hokey, thet air 
chair is wuth er fortune.” 

Uncle Nat had not acquired culture but his nature 
was manly and noble. Education had been denied 
him by grim force of circumstances. After mov- 
ing on Lebanon, he had casually drifted into the 
mountain-dialect as had also his good wife; but his 
heart was pure and tme, and above it all was a 
most remarkable, telling personality. There was 
much to amuse and admire in his homely philosophy, 
and it was always with a throb of pleasure that his 
friends gathered around and listened to him. 

The events of the past two days had set him to 
thinking. The Quakeress’s mysterious visit and the 
unexpected gift that meant so much to him — there 
was something so unusual about this experience of 
being remembered by an almost total stranger, that 
he lifted his thin hands and clasping them as he 
gazed into the dying embers on the old hearth mur- 
mured: ‘T know, heavenly Father, I am unworthy 
of this great blessing bestowed on me, but I am 
sure obliged ter ye fer puttin’ it inter ther heart uv 
er stranger ter send me this chair. I hope ye will 
help me git well ez soon ez possible, fer ther sake 
uv ther mortgage an’ the intrust money an’ Mother 
an’ Lyddy.’- , ,, 

A new. feeling of peaceful rest stole over him as 
soon he drifted off to sleep and slept as soundly 
as he- ever had,, which was a revelation to 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


61 


liim when he awakened in the morning refreshed 
and rested. 

- After an early breakfast and the good-bys had 
heen said, their visitor took her departure. 

The Overland stopped at the Wilburs’ gate. Si 
Newman jumped down and gently assisted the 
Quakeress to a seat in front, beside him. She soon 
settled down comfortably in her seat. The sun 
was shining and on the road and along both sides 
was a mist close to the earth, “that betokened 
good weather,” Si said. 

The passenger drew her shawl closely about her 
and, turning to her companion, said: “Friend New- 
rhan, this is a delightful morning, so clear, so bright, 
so fresh. We can almost imagine that heaven and 
God are nearer on this grand old mountain-top; 
don’t you think so? 

“Wall, ma’am, I guess ef our hearts air tuned 
%rbout' right. He ain’t very fur off at any time. 
Ef my mem’ry serves me right, ther good book says 
He is everywhar.” 

■“Friend Newman, I would like to ask thee a 
question and hope thee will take no offense.” 

“Sail right in, ma’am. Ask ez many ez 
ye like, an’ ez fer ez I know. I’ll answer ye 
true.” 

“Thank thee, my friend. Are thee a Christian?” 

• - “Wall, ma’am thet depends on what ye call er 
Christian. ” 

“Does thee love thy neighbor as thyself?” 

■- ■- Si pushed his old straw hat back and ran his 
fingers through his grizzly tuft of " chin-whiskers, 
and replied: ‘Wall, ter- tell yer • ther truth, some 
-on* em I do an’ some on ’em I don’t-.’’ .. 


62 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


“Does thee think, my friend, thee will go to 
Heaven?” 

“Wall, thet’s ruther er hard question, but I guess 
I’m safe ter say I’m willin’ ter take my chances 
with any one I’ve ever come ercross yet.” 

“May I ask what is thy idea of religion?” 

“Wall, thet’s somethin’ uv er sticker; but ez ye’ve 
asked me, I might ez well tell yer. Ye see thar air 
so many tamal dif’rent opinions regardin’ religion, 
an’ thar’s so many dif’rent churches an’ denomina- 
tions, an’ so many creeds an ’isms, thet I don’t try 
ter riddle ’em out any more. I jest stand pat fer 
what ther best uv sainted mothers taught me when 
er youngster. Ye see. Dad wuz erway frum home 
so much uv ther time thet erbout ther hull raisin’s 
uv us children wuz left ter Mother.” 

By this time, the horses were walking slowly 
with slack rein. 

“Wall, she used ter gether us eround her uv a 
Sabbath an’ open ther old family Bible an’ smile an’ 
say: ‘Which one is ter choose terday?’ You see, we 
hed turns ter choose er Bible story. There was 
Josh, he wuz named fur a Bible man, Joshua. 
Then come Esther. Ye know erbout Queen Esther 
an’ what she done fer her people in Bible times. 
Then come leetle Ruth an’, ef yer remember, Ruth 
didn’t take no back seat in Bible times neither, an’ 
my name wuz Simon Peter. So ye kin easy see 
thet Mother wuz jest sot on her Bible when she 
named ev’ry tamal child arter er Bible name. 

“Wall, ev’ry Sabbath, she’d jest top off ther Bible 
lesson by us all repeatin’ ther Ten Commandments, 
an’, ma’am, I want ter tell yer thet this hagglin’ 
over religions jest sickens me till I’ve jest biled 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


63 


ther whole thing down ter ther Ten Command- 
ments writ by ther finger uv God. I tell yer, ma’am, 
it’s the hull thing in er nut-shell; ther Ten Command- 
ments is ther kernel ter religion. 

“Do I believe thar’s er God? Wall, wall, thet’s 
ther strangest question yet. Let’s see. Could any 
one but God create er insect thet could produce 
honey? Could any one but God create such music 
ez our old Vermont songsters make? Could any 
one but God put sich sweetness into ther posies an’ 
blend their delicate colorin’? Could any one but 
God make sich er variety uv sunrises an’ sunsets ez 
we git on Leb’non? How erbout ther rivers an’ 
mountains an’ deserts an’ gold an’ silver an’ ther 
heavenly bodies an’ er million other things thet 
man, ef he died tryin’, couldn’t do? 

“Wall, ma’am, I guess thar’s er God all right an’ 
I guess thet when ye come ter sum ther hull thing 
up, He’s erbout right an’ perfectly able ter operate 
this old imiverse without any man’s assistance. Do 
ye think er feller cud love honey an’ posies an’ sun- 
sets an’ not believe in er God? No, siree, thar’s 
er God all right. Why, I’d erbout ez soon believe 
I’d never hed er good, true, lovin’, Christian mother, 
ez ter entertain the idee fer er minute thet thar 
wuz no God. I reckon yer acquainted with them 
chapters uv Matthew an’ John an’ ther Twenty- 
third ’Sa’m an’ er good many other chapters thet 
make er feller feel comfortable like, arter readin’?’’ 

“Yes, my friend, I am acquainted with them and 
I thank thee. Thee is a wise man.’’ 

The Quakeress was nonplussed. Who was this 
quaint, plain moimtain stage-driver that seemed so 
familiar with God’s productions, for it was entirely 


64 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


from nature’s resources he seemed to base his belief 
in God’s existence. Surely, the Infinite Presence 
was inbred in this man. He seemed so filled with 
such beautiful sentiment that it seemed impossible 
for one to have and not be a Christian. What 
could this man not have been, had opportunity 
come his way? 

“What of thy brother, Joshua, Friend Newman?’’ 

“O, nothing much, only Josh’s er jedge uv some 
supreme court out in Colorado.’’ 

“And thy sisters?’’ 

“Wall, Esther lives in Iowa. Her man’s er great 
bone-setter an’ surgeon, I see by ther papers. Ruth? 
Wall, leetle Ruth’s in heaven with Mother. 

“My his’try? Wall, I reckon ther ain’t much ter 
tell yer erbout me. I’m ther odd sheep in ther 
family, ma’am,’’ and Si gathered a tight rein. 
“G’long, boys; we’ve got ter make thet train fer 
this lady.’’ 

The rest of the way, Mrs. Filmore sat in deep 
revery. Her mind was dwelling on the city to which 
she was returning, the city of toil and strife and 
poverty and wealth. Yes, poverty of the rich as 
well as the poor — the poverty of everyone that 
did not enjoy the sweet, unassuming fath of the 
man who sat beside her, this plain, homely moun- 
tain stage-driver, this man so filled with deep and 
holy philosophy. She had learned during her trip 
to and stay on Lebanon that “the glory of living 
did not lie in the amount of cash one was able to 
spend, but in the hearts cheered, the kindly word 
spoken, the glad and honest hand given in time of 
need.’’ These were like apples of gold in pictures 
of silver. 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


65 


CHAPTER V. 

After their visitor’s departure, Aunt Rhue bustled 
about putting the home in order. Uncle Nat 
wheeled himself out into the kitchen where the sun 
was shining through the east door. He demanded 
of Aunt Rhue the privilege of peeling the apples 
for the dumplings for dinner, and of scrubbing the 
potatoes for the baking, as the top of the stove 
was in use and no place “ter bile ’em,” Aunt Rhue 
said. 

Lydia had slipped away to a favorite haunt. 
To-day, it was among the branches of a great 
Northern Spy apple-tree that grew in a comer of 
the garden. She was in the habit of doing this for 
an occasional rare hour with her books. More 
often, she would creep through the undergrowth of 
a sweet elder a little farther off and nestle down to 
build her air-castles undisturbed. But, to-day, she 
brought no book. She just wanted to think over 
the events of the last two days. The visit of the 
Quakeress had given rise to a new train of thought 
in Lydia’s mind. She thought over and over again 
every word their guest had uttered and treasured 
some of her sayings deep in her heart. 

The description of the cities beyond the moun- 
tains, their customs and people, the churches and 
music, the colleges and schools, all had a charm for 
her. 

“Yes, I am coming. Grandma,” she answered, 
as she slid down the tmnk of the old apple tree and 
quickly disappeared within the shady depths of the 
open bam-door. “I will look for the eggs right 
away; but I thought it was most too early. It was 


66 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


careless of me to stay so long.” She went about 
the task and soon had her basket well filled. As 
she went through the kitchen, she said: “I am 
sorry I was so long, Grandma, but I thought I 
would take a peep in my study in the Spy, and it 
was so delightful I stayed too long.” 

“Plenty time, Lyddy, pleilty uv time,” her grand- 
mother replied, as she patted her on the shoulder. 
“Do ye want ter whisk ther eggs fer this spice cake?” 


CHAPTER VI. 

“I am only a poor soldier. Miss Margaret, but 
God only knows how I love you. Perhaps, I am 
presuming to acknowledge it. I feel unworthy and 
have tried to smother this great love and go back 
to my regiment without telling you, but I can not. 
I owe you double gratitude. You have saved my 
life and I will consecrate it unsullied to the end.” 

A hush of infinite silence, a silence that meant so 
much to them, then the nurse laid her hand on his 
brow, smoothing aside the tumbled hair, and from 
out the holy hush came the low, quiet words: 

“Robert, I love thee. I will be true to thee 
forever.” 

Tears slipped from the closed lids; he carried her 
hands to his lips and murmured: “No, no, it can not 
be; it is too good to be true.” 

“Robert, when this cruel, heartless war is over, 
thee will return to me?” 

“And you will be my bride?” 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 67 

“Yes, Robert, thy bride. ‘Thy people shall be 
my people and thy God mine.’ ’’ 

The young soldier drew from beneath his pillow 
a small, worn, and crimson-stained Bible, opened it 
to the thirty-first chapter of Genesis, and the forty- 
ninth verse, and asked her to read. 

Taking it, she read in a sweet voice: “The Lord 
watch between thee and me when we are absent 
one from another.’’ 

“Now, write your name, dear, and it shall be my 
talisman. I will cherish it ever. When I first left 
home for school, my mother placed this book in 
my hands without a word, but it spoke volumes for 
her. She had had it from girlhood, and it was her 
most precious possession. I love it, and now it will 
be doubly dear to me. I am a farmer’s son with 
but little of this world’s goods as yet, but I am a 
color-bearer, and, when I unfurl the glorious stars 
and stripes, there seems to come a whisper that some 
day I will be more worthy. Now, I will arise and 
prepare for the morrow. I feel rested and am 
anxious to be on the move. I know not how to 
thank you. Your love so pure and unchanging will 
stimulate me to greater devotion to this glorious 
cause and, God willing, some day I will return to 
you. You little know what you have been to me.’’ 
Again, he touched her hand with his lips and she 
was gone. 

Early the next morning, all who were able to 
resiune duty were segregated on the lawn, waiting 
for the summons to be on the march. Just within 
the door stood Robert and his sweetheart. 

“Now, as the hour of my departure is drawing 
near,’’ Robert murmured, “I give to you this token 


68 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


of love, my parting gift.” Opening a tiny gold 
locket, he laid it in her hand. “Keep it in remem- 
brance of me, and, as often as you gaze on the like- 
ness within, remember that wherever I am or what- 
ever I do, my thought is of you, dear heart.” 

“O, Robert, this for me! The very thing I care 
for most; for of all. else in the whole world, nothing 
could be dearer than thy precious face. I will keep 
it and treasure it and wear it every day of my life, 
and in return will give thee the same,” and in his 
hand, she placed a locket containing a portrait on 
ivory of herself in her nurse’s garb. 

He raised the hand holding, the locket to his 
breast and, crossing it with his other, raised his 
eyes to her. 

“O, Margaret, my love, my own, I thank you, 
and I know you will prove true, for the women who 
carry the love of our blessed Savior in their hearts 
will never prove unfaithful to their lovers. Now 
may the Lord bless thee and keep thee.” 

Margaret breathed: “Amen.” 


CHAPTER VII. 

A little way out from the village of Alden and on 
the west side from that which our story opens, and 
where the roads met and crossed, stood an old, 
large, square-topped brick house, which was known 
for miles around as “The Traveler’s Rest.” 

It had been built well back in the forties and used 
for a private, home for years, but fast living and gross 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


69 


extravagance had at last brought it under the 
sheriff’s hammer. It was now used as a temper- 
ance public house, patronized by tourists and trav- 
elers seeking rest and recreation, and, at certain 
times of the year, was comfortably filled most of the 
time. The cooking of Aunt Hulda Devers had a 
reputation that had gone abroad and had made the 
place a favorite one with travelers. 

Sun and storm had bleached the mortar to a 
dead white and the bricks to a dull, grayish red. 
The solid board shutters were loose on their hinges 
and here and there where the plaster had crumbled 
away, a clinging place had been made for the wild 
Virginia creeper and bitter sweet, until it almost 
covered two sides of the building and made a home 
for innumerable birds. 

There was a wide, double Dutch door in front, 
over which clambered a wild clematis whose clusters 
of silvery blossoms quivered and swayed in the 
breeze. Just inside was an old-fashioned entry, 
lighted by a narrow sash that contained diamond- 
shaped window-panes. These narrow windows were 
on either side of the door, and over the top was a 
fan-shaped sash window. 

Along the sides of the entry ran benches of polished 
fat pine. Two doors directly faced each other; one 
opened into the exchange, or men’s room, where the 
wayfarer could quench his thirst either with old- 
fashioned root beer or the pungent juice of the 
grape; the other opened into a large sitting .or 
living-room. This room contained four large win- 
dows whose small square panes glistened like dia- 
monds from repeated polishing. The floor was 
waxed to glassy smoothness, with here and there 


70 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


large, gay, home-made rugs. Along the sides of the 
room rush-bottomed chairs were ranged; a large 
comfortable lounge, table, and several Boston rock- 
ers, completed the furniture. On this particular 
day, there streamed through the open doorway the 
cheery, welcome blaze of a fat pine knot fire. The 
late autumn sun brought out in rich copper and 
brown shades the brilliant coloring of the maple, 
chestnut, and ash trees that surrounded the house. 

Through the small-paned windows looked out the 
tired face of a traveler, and as he looked, he said: 
“It surely must be somewhere in this neighborhood, 
for the description tallies to a T.” He crossed the 
room and opened a door. At once, his attention was 
attracted to a subdued conversation, although he 
could not understand a word. 

“Lemme git dar. Miss Lily on; I’se got mighty 
sharp eyes, I hab, an’ if the gemnan is anybody 
frum these yere parts, I kin rec’nize ’im.’’ 

The speaker was a plump mulatto woman past 
middle age and, in the shadow, she stood out dis- 
tinctly. Her dress was of gay gingham with turban 
of same material, and a snowy kerchief was crossed 
on her bosom. A soft, mellow voice replied: 

“Your eyes are no sharper than mine. Aunt Judy, 
and I failed to recognize the gentleman as any one 
I ever saw; but we must go at once. It is getting 
late, and Guardy will wonder why we tarry so 
long,’’ and, as she spoke, they stepped from beneath 
the shadow of the trees. 

“I do declar’, Missy, if thar ain’t the gemnan dis 
blessed minute. Come on honey, chile, it’s gwine 
ter storm.’’ 

“You are right. Aunt Judy, we must hurry.” A 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


71 


vivd flash of lightning followed quickly by peals 
of distant thunder and big drops of rain caused the 
old colored woman to grasp the arm of her young 
mistress and hurry her into the entry of the Travel- 
er’s Rest. 

They sat for a moment; then, the young woman 
said: “The storm will quickly pass. Perhaps, while 
we are here, you had better go to the kitchen and 
get Aunt Matilda’s rule for quince marmalade, the 
one we’ve wanted so long; but don’t stay long, 
Aunt Judy.” 

The old colored woman hastened to obey and 
soon returned saying: “De storm am cl’ared; honey, 
we’d bettah be goin’.” 

“Very well. Aunty,” and, picking up her basket, 
they left the house. 

After supper, the stranger, in conversation with 
his hostess, inquired if there was a man by the 
name of Phillips lived in that vicinity. Aunt Hilda 
replied : 

“Yes, sir, about a half-mile north from here, goin’ 
toward the village. Jest take the north road as 
the sign-board will tell ye, go er little ways, turn 
to your left, and there you have Brown Gables, 
the home of Uncle Peter Phillips, ez he is familiarly 
called in these parts.” 

“Thank you; I will tarry with you to-night, and 
call on Mr. Phillips to-morrow morning.” 

It was only the hum of insects, yet it might have 
been the din of distant battle so loudly did they 
hum and flit hither and thither. All along the 
country road the pungent scent of the late ever- 
lasting and golden rod wafted up to the stranger 
on the cool, fresh air. As he gathered up the rein 


72 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


of the horse he was riding, something brushed his 
cheek, and, glancing up quickly, he saw a thing of 
beauty. A great golden butterfly flecked with black 
was now lazily swinging from a tall hazel bush. 
The sky was beautiful with its rifts of silver, over 
the deep azure blue, more beautiful than he had 
ever thought sky could be. He stopped to gaze 
around him. A luminous transparency seemed 
spread over the landscape and completely to en- 
velope it. At this moment, the sun burst forth 
in all its beauty and completed the enchantment of 
the scene. 

“I wonder if it is much farther,” the rider said, 
as he leaned forward on his horse. “This must be 
the turn,” and, as he rounded the comer, his gaze 
was rewarded by sight of an old, many-gabled 
house, and, busily raking the fallen leaves on the 
lawn, was an old colored servant. 

“Hello, Uncle? How far is it to Brown Gables?” 

The negro touched his old straw hat by way of 
salute and replied: “Ef hits Marse Phillips youse 
lookin’ fer, you don’ need travel any furder, fer dis 
’ere place am de Brown Gables itse’f.” 

“Is your master at home?” 

“Yes, sir; yes, sir, he am. He done be in de 
garden jes’ er minnit ago. Will ye ’light an’ hab 
yer boss put up, Massa?’' 

“Thank you. Uncle, I will,” and he dismounted, 
throwing the rein to the servant. 

“Will you done go in de house, Massa, or set on 
de piazza?” 

“I will sit on the piazza and await your master.” 

The old darkey hitched the horse; then disap- 
peared round the comer of the house. As the 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


73 


stranger dropped into a rustic chair, he heard foot- 
steps coming through the hall, and, before he could 
turn, there appeared before him a small negro boy, 
who pulled his foretop of shining wool and said: 

“Marse Phillips done tol’ me ter ask yer, suh, to 
step out in de cedah walk, suh. It’s so shady an’ 
cool thar dat he hates ter lebe it, I reckon.” 

“All right, sonny; show the way.” 

“Mah name ain’t sonny, suh. Hit’s Patsy,” giv- 
ing his wool another tug. “Come right on, suh.” 

As the stranger followed him, he noted the com- 
fort of the cool, broad hall. There was no one in 
sight, but the hall-table was a wonder with fresh- 
cut flowers, golden rod, asters, and bright autumn 
leaves. They were arranged in different vases and 
jars, ready to be placed in the different rooms. 
Passing through a door, they descended several 
steps and on to the cedar walk. 

“Dat’s Marse Phillips yander, suh,” and the little 
darkey took to his heels and ran away. 

A few steps farther, and the stranger was in the 
presence of the man he had traveled so far to see. 

Raising his hat, he asked: “Have I the pleasure of 
addressing Mr. Phillips, of Brown Gables?” 

“That you have, sir,” said Mr. Phillips, rising and 
extending his hand. “And to whom am I indebted 
for this early morning call? But whoever you are, 
you are welcome to Brown Gables.” 

“I am Ernest St. Albans, of Washington, D. C., 
sir, and I have a letter of introduction from my 
friend. Colonel Ashmore.” 

On taking the letter, Mr. Phillips scrutinized the 
writing, turned it over, and Anally opened and with- 
drew the letter that meant either the election or 


74 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


rejection of His friendship for the man who stood 
before him. 

“So you are St. Albans, of the United States Geo- 
logical Survey. I know Ashmore, all right, and a 
prime fellow h^ is, too.” Then, extending his hand 
again, said: “St. Albans, what do you want of me, 
and how best can I serve you? Please be seated, 
sir,” waving his hand toward a chair. 

St. Albans complied with his request, drawing a 
chair directly in front of his host. Laying his hat 
on the arbor-seat, he stretched and crossed his leg, 
and waited for his host to open the conversation. 

“Well, Mr. St. Albans, what can I do for you?” 
repeated Mr. Phillips. “As you are a stranger here- 
abouts and no one expecting you home to dinner, 
I advise you to settle down here for the day; for 
this is chicken-pie day and Mother will give you a 
hearty welcome; and say, Pll go you one better 
still — you, as a friend of Colonel Ashmore, are in- 
vited to make this your abiding place while you are 
in these parts, and Pm mighty glad to welcome you 
as such.” 

“I thank you sincerely for your invitation to re- 
main to dinner and will accept, but will defer my 
acceptance until later for a longer stay.” 

On close observation, he found his host to be a 
genial but shrewd-looking man of middle age. He 
was clothed in a black frock coat, and, although the 
summer was well past, he still wore the homespun 
linen trousers and vest he liked so well. A broad, 
sunbrowned straw hat was well pushed back on his 
pink, shiny bald head. His left leg was crossed 
carelessly over the right, and he sat quietly twirling 
his thumbs one over the other. At this moment. 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


75 


Mrs. Phillips appeared and he arose with old-time 
gallantry and said : 

“Come, Mother, I want to introduce you to Mr. 
St. Albans. He is Allison’s friend. You well re- 
member Allison who stayed with us a spell last 
year when that gang from Washington was here, 
the Geological Survey fellers? As this is chicken- 
day, I’ve invited him to dinner. You know you 
are mighty handy at pot-pie. Mother.’’ 

“You are very welcome, sir,’’ she said, as she gave 
him her hand, “and we will be very glad to have 
you remain. But, O, Father,’’ she remonstrated 
blushingly, “how can you pester so?’’ 

She was a fine, motherly-looking woman, with 
abundant brown hair lightly tinged with gray about 
the temples, and shining brown eyes of open frank- 
ness, a firm round chin that dimpled when she 
smiled. She was simply gowned in a pretty chintz, 
and a large, white apron added to her homelike 
charm. 

“Never mind your apron. Mother. Mr. St. Alban 
will understand there is much to do and undo in 
managing a ranch like this, with several darkies 
and an old customer like me to keep in order.’’ 

“No, Father, I was only going over the poultry- 
record with Jake, and giving out the supplies to 
Aunt Hetty, and, by the way, Lillian is coming to 
spend the day to-morrow and sent word by Judy 
to tell you she was coming to see you ‘special.’ ’’ 
So saying, she left the men to superintend the serv- 
ing of the noonday repast. 

St. Alban thought, as he took his seat at the 
daintily appointed table in a delightfully cool dining- 
room that he was extremely fortunate in receiving 


76 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


such a reception from these friends of Allison. The 
food was deliciously prepared and the service from 
the little maid was perfect, so deftly and quietly did 
she perform her duties. 

The conversation drifted from one thing to an- 
other, when St. Alban asked about the colored ser- 
vants in this remote part of the state, and how it 
came about. Mr. Phillips replied that, at the close 
of^ the war, a number of them were induced to 
migrate to Vermont, through several Southern 
families who settled there and, as they were con- 
tented and happy, had never returned to the 
southland. 

After dinner, the men went out on the veranda 
and there, over their cigars, St. Alban made known 
his errand. 

^ “Mr. Phillips, my business here is to seek informa- 
tion regarding a friend whom I have not seen in 
years. Allison told me, if such a person lived any- 
where in these parts, you would be likely to know 
it. I refer to a young lady by the name of Miss 
Lillian St. Clair. We used to know each other long 
ago. A few days ago, I overheard a conversation in 
which a lady mentioned a Miss St. Clair, a person 
she had met recently somewhere up in these moun- 
tains of Vermont. She was extolling the beauty of 
the trip. Her companions asked her what part of 
the State, and she said she left the main line at 
Bolton, staged from there to Alderson, changed 
again, and by stage went to a little mountain town 
called Alden Comers. I remembered to have re- 
ceived a letter from Allison postmarked Alden, and 
it was from there he shipped my beautiful Scotch 
collie dog.” 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 77 

“By Gad!” exclaimed Mr. Phillips. “Are you 
the fellow that got my pet, Dexter?” 

“Yes, sir, I have that honor.” 

“Well, you are doubly welcome to Brown Gables.” 

“I hunted up Allison, Mr. Phillips, and asked him 
if he had heard that name while up here. He said 
no, but if there was a person by that name, you 
would know it. Now, Mr. Phillips, you know just 
why I am here. I have told you my reason.” 

“But, hold on, St. Alban, I wish you would be a 
little more explicit.” 

“Very well, I will go back to the beginning of 
our friendship. I enlisted when the first call for 
volunteers was made in the late Civil War and was 
one of the fortunate ones who remained until Lee’s 
surrender. During my second year, I was wounded 
and laid up for repairs in a hospital in Washington, 
and it was there I met Miss St. Clair. At the close 
of the rebellion, I tried to locate her but failed. 
All I could ever learn was that her father was 
killed after eighteen months’ faithful service, as 
colonel of his regiment. His plantation was near 
Richmond, and all his slaves and personal property 
were confiscated. His only son was also killed in 
the second battle of Bull Run, leaving the daughter 
alone. She was visiting friends in Washington when 
I met her, but they moved away long before the 
war came to an end. I finally heard of them and 
wrote them, but they knew nothing of Miss St. 
Clair’s whereabouts.” 

“Aha, my friend; but why are you so anxious to 
find this young woman? You see, I might know 
and then again I might not.” 

“Mr. Phillips, it is of the utmost importance to 


78 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


both Miss St. Clair and myself that I find her at 
once, and I assure you on my honor as a man and 
Colonel Allison’s friend from boyhood that I mean 
only good in locating the lady. I can go no further 
in detail until I have seen Miss St. Clair; then, if 
she so wills it, you and your good wife shall have 
full particulars.” 

“You are about right in seeing Lillian first.” 

St. Alban started. “You call Miss St. Clair by 
her first name, sir. For God’s sake, if you can tell 
me where she is, please do so at once and end this 
suspense.” 

“Tut, tut, don’t get excited. There may be more 
than one Lillian St. Clair, but I want to make plain 
to you, sir, before-hand, that if the one I know is 
the one you are looking for and harm ever comes 
to her in any way, by gad, you will have to account 
to me for it. I am an old man, but I know how 
to handle the shooting-irons yet. The Lillian St. 
Clair we know and love is just like a daughter to 
us, and I am not going to give any keen-eyed gentle- 
man the chance to hurt even her feelings, if I can 
help it.” 

“I thank you for your loyalty to Miss St. Clair, 
sir, if she be the one I seek, and I only hope it is 
true.” 

“Well, stranger, I suppose it is all right, and I 
have no business not to tell you, for any man, 
woman, or child in these parts could tell you as 
well as I, for she is a prime favorite with all.” 

“Thank you, Mr. Phillips, but I much prefer your 
telling me, especially as you are such a staunch 
friend of hers.” 

“Were you thinking of seeing her to-day? If 


LYDIA OF LEBANON . 


79 


you were and our Lillian is the woman you are 
hunting, you won’t have to go far, but I advise 
you to stay to supper with us and take a good sleep 
on the prospect.” 

“No, sir, I thank you. I will delay no longer. 
Please to tell me at once how to reach her.” 

“Well, I advise that you leave your horse here, 
walk down the road until you come to a big house 
set among a number of giant beech and maple 
trees. That is the home of my neighbor. Granger. 
Just ask for him, if you don’t see Lillian first. We 
shall expect you back to supper, for, by gad. I’ll 
be blamed if I don’t like your ways for a stranger.” 

St. Alban arose, shook hands with his host, and 
rapidly walked away. 

“Hi, there, Pete, called Mr. Phillips. “Take this 
note to Squire Granger at once. Cut across lots, 
and don’t let the grass grow under your feet. Be 
back here in twenty minutes. Then, we will look 
over the flock of Southdowns and select the ones 
we are to keep over.” 


CHAPTER VHI. 

As Judy and her mistress hurried off through the 
shadows, Judy said: “Who you spec dat man am, 
honey, we seen at de Res’ an’ fer what am he roun’ 
dis yer place dis time ob de yeah. He got er keen 
eye, he hab. You jes watch fer him, honey. I seen 
him roll up dem eyes ob hisn.” 

“Hush, Judy, you must not talk so. He is a 


80 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


stranger and I heard him inquiring for Uncle 
Phillips.” 

“Now, look yer, missy, thet counts fer nothin’. 
Eb’ry Tom, Dick, an’ Harry am ’quirin’ fer Marse 
Phillips. Dey all seem ter know he am dead easy 
ter der mark, else why dey all wantin’ Marse Phil- 
lips here an’ Marse Phillips dar, is moah dan ol’ 
Judy can tell. So I tell ye to watch out, honey, an’ 
don’t be gibin’ yore lubly converse an’ sweet smile 
to dem all. Dey may be wildcats in lamb’s clos’, 
as de good Book says.” 

Later, as Lillian St. Clair was seated in her own 
room, she thought, too, of the stranger and won- 
dered what his mission could be in that remote 
part of the country. As she mused over the event, 
the thought came: “I will ask Uncle Phillips to- 
morrow. He will tell me.” Rising, she opened the 
door and descended the broad staircase. On a table 
in the hall, she found the evening mail. Picking up 
several letters, she stepped outside the door and, 
seating herself, began leisurely to open and read 
them. 

“Well, I am very glad of this. Here is an order 
from Bolton for my little friend, Lydia, for four 
dozen butternut maple candies for a Thanksgiving 
party, and another for six dozen groundpine and 
bittersweet wreaths for Christmas. Of course, it is 
a long way off; but it will give the child something 
pleasant to think of. She is a little dear, and at 
times reminds me of a picture or person I have seen 
somewhere. I feel so sorry for her, way off on 
Lebanon with only grown-ups, but if Philip Strong 
lives there this winter, he will be company for 
her. I will try to see her soon. She will take pleas- 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


81 


ure in anticipating the work, and it will help her 
over the hard places and give her some pin money. 
I often wonder about her. 

“0, here is a letter from June Allison. Her aunt 
from Philadelphia has been there, and her father has 
gone home with her. She is alone and wants me 
to come and spend a week with her during his 
absence. She writes her father has the ‘wanderlust’ 
and may not be home for some time. I will see 
Guardy about it and write her, to-night. If he is 
well enough for me to leave and approves of it, I 
will go for a few days.” 

“Judy, go and tell Miss Lillian to come to me 
here on the side piazza and to please bring her pen 
and ink.” 

“Yes, sah, I’se jes gwine, Marse Granger, an’ 
I’ll tell her de same. Has ye done got all de pillers 
ye wants ter make ye comfort? De sun’ll soon be 
roun’ dis side ob de house an’ den I’ll be back 
torectly or send Eph to roll yer cheer into de shady 
cornah. Anyt’ing else, Marse?” 

“No, no, Judy. Go at once and send your mis- 
tress to me. I am all right. Hi, Judy, tell Eph 
to bring my lemon and ice-water. I’m unusually 
thirsty.” 

In a few minutes, Lillian stood by her guardian’s 
side and, looking in his face, saw a peculiar sad 
smile that caused alarm. Quickly bending over 
him, she asked: “What is it, Guardy, you wanted 
me to do for you?” Receiving no reply, she laid 
her hand on his, saying: “No shamming this time, 
for we must hurry. You know we are all going for 
a short drive and it is getting late.” Still no re- 
sponse. Quickly kneeling beside him, she looked 


82 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


up into the fallen face and saw there what caused 
her to cry aloud. Hearing a quick step, she looked 
up and beheld the face of the stranger she had seen 
the day before. 

“Oh, sir, come quickly. There is something 
wrong with my guardian ; he will not answer me and 
looks so strange.” 

St. Albans, for it was he, stooped and took the 
old man’s hand in his and said quietly: “You had 
better send for a doctor at once. The gentleman is 
very ill.” 

By this time, Judy was kneeling by her master’s 
side. “Fo’ God’s sake. Miss Lillian, honey, 
he am shorely daid. What fo’ ye want de 
doctor?” 

“Hush, Judy. Go at once and send Uncle Eph 
here to help carry your master into the house and 
tell Sam to go at once for the doctor.” 

Very soon, they had laid her guardian on his 
bed. As they did so, a scrap of paper fluttered to 
the floor. Lillian picked it up and slipped it in 
her bosom. Then she began, without a word, to 
chafe her guardian’s hands. 

Soon, there was a tap at the door and the doctor 
entered the room. Quickly bending over the old 
rnan, he made a hasty examination. Then, raising 
his head, he said slowly : 

“Miss Lillian, your guardian is past help. He is 
dead.” 

Later, on removing Squire Granger’s clothes, a 
long, thick yellow envelope fell to the floor. Uncle 
Eph picked it up and handed it to Miss Lillian, 
who immediately left the room. As she did so, she 
glanced at the inscription: “For Nathaniel Wilbur.” 


LYDIA OP LEBANON 


83 


“I will wait until later and take it to -Uncle Nat 
myself.” 

Ernest St. Albans, with bowed head, hastily left 
the room. It was no time for explanations. The 
hour at last had come when he felt his heart’s desire 
was before him. He knew he had at last stood in 
the presence of his lost love. But here again he was 
held at bay by the deep sorrow that pervaded this 
household. He had handed Miss St. Clair his card 
and asked if he could be of service. 

She had glanced at it and replied: “I thank you, 
sir, but we have many friends who will come to our 
assistance.” 

St. Albans, bowing low, left the house and retraced 
his steps to Brown Gables. ‘‘My God, can it be 
possible that I have found Lillian only to lose her 
again?” he murmured. 


CHAPTER IX. 

The scrap of paper Lillian had picked up from 
the floor was the one Peter Phillips had sent his 
neighbor Granger by the colored lad. As she re- 
moved her waist at nightfall, it fell to the floor. 
Old Judy stooped and, picking it up, asked: 

‘‘What this yer, honey chil’? Any count er shall 
Judy fling it in de grate? It done fall when ye took 
of yo’ waist.” 

‘‘Let me see it, Judy.” Taking it, she glanced at 
it and at once recognized the slip of paper. On 
reading it, her face paled, and, opening a bureau- 


84 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


drawer, carelessly threw it in, saying: “It is of no 
consequence, Judy. Please hurry and bring my 
dressing-gown.” 

“Now, see yer. Miss Lillian, chib,” laying her 
wrinkled hand on her shoulder, “cain’t yo’ trus’ oV 
Judy any more, she as done nussed yo’ frum a leetle 
baby, an’ who lubs yo’ as her life. Cain’t yo’ trus’ 
her any mo’ ? Dar ar piece ob papah ye say am no 
consequence. Cain’t fool ol’ Judy, honey chil’. 
Why did yo’ purty cheek pale an’ yo’ shakin’ dis 
’ere minnit like an’ ole Virginny ager. Cain’t yo’ 
tell ole Judy whut’s troublin’ her lamb? Don’t cross 
no deep watahs till ye gits to um, honey.” 

“There, there, dear Aunt Judy, don’t worry any 
more. There is nothing in it that will harm me, 
and perhaps something that might make me very 
happy. I will not go down again to-night. Pre- 
pare and bring me a cup of tea and a cracker, and 
when you come up for the night, tell Uncle Eph I 
can see no one to-night. Judy, be sure to see that 
everything necessary is prepared for the comfort of 
those who are to stay here to-night. Also, tell 
Uncle Eph to see that everything is seciure as usual 
before he retires.” 

Thus dismissed, Judy left the room, muttering to 
herself : “What fur that pestiferous young marse done 
come roun’ here fur? I’se feared he’s goin’ to ’noy 
my young mistress. I’ll tell Eph to keep dat eye 
ob hisn peeled in his direction. What fer he don’ 
come roun’ yer? O, Marse Granger, what fer ye 
done die ’fore my young misis was done settled fer? 
Pore lil’ lamb, her sweet heart am jes breakin’. 
Cain’t fool ol’ Aunt Judy nary time. I jes feel it 
in my ole bones, dat scrap ob paper consams dat 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 85 

hamsome young marse; but whar did it come 
frum?” 

As Judy left the room, Lillian took the scrap of 
paper from the drawer and smoothing it out read: 
‘‘The devil’s to pay, Granger. A young man has 
just left here in search of Lillian St. Clair. I don’t 
know his business, but his name is Ernest St. Alban. 
Thought I’d let you know. Phillips.” 

Lillian shook as with a chill as she refolded the 
paper. “Oh, God, my Father, what does this 
mean! The dead come to life and the living dead, 
all in the twinkling of an eye. Help me, dear Lord, 
as no one else can. What does it all mean? Can it 
really be my Ernest?” 

A knock at the door announced Uncle Eph. 
“Here, Miss Lillian, am a lettah done fetched by 
Marse Phillip’s Pete dis bery minnit, an’ he say he 
mus’ wait fer an answer.” 

“Very well. Uncle Eph, return in half an hour.” 
As the door closed, Lillian crossed the room, stirred 
the fire, lighted a candle, sat down, and turned the 
envelope over and over. Finally, she broke the seal 
and read : 

“Miss St. Clair, Lillian: May I come to you at once?” 

I “Ernest St. Alban.” 

Lillian tremblingly replaced the note, crossed to 
her desk, drew forth her writing material, and 
hastily wrote a few lines, placed them in an envelope, 
and silently waited for Uncle Eph’s return. 

When the old man came back, Lillian said: “Please 
give this to Pete; and. Uncle Eph, look after every- 
thing as your master would have you.” 

“Yes’um, Miss Lillian, I’se done eb’ryt’ing, but 


86 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


say, honey chil’, cain’t ol’ Eph sleep on the cot 
outside yo’ do’ temight?” 

“Thank you, Uncle Eph, but Aunt Judy will 
sleep on the couch here by me, and now good night. 
Tell Sam to be sure the horses are all right.’’ 


CHAPTER X. 

The news of the sudden death of Gideon Granger, 
justice of the peace and deacon in the church, was 
quickly passed around, and much speculation as to 
his affairs was caused. Every barrel-top and cracker- 
box was duly occupied by regular loafer or casual 
customer in Rube Steven’s general store that night, 
and the post-office and tavern had their full quota as 
well. 

A death in Alden Center was a rare thing, but 
such a sudden rendering of soul and body as Gideon 
Granger’s was indeed a shock. The probable 
amount of his worldly goods was hinted at, and the 
wonderment of who would get it was discussed, 
and finally what would become of his ward. Miss 
Lillian. 

“By cracky, I declar’ to goodness, I would really 
like ter know what will become uv the gal,’’ said 
Uncle Rube. 

“Wall, Uncle Rube, I’m su’prised. You needn’t 
be in such a hurry tew dispose of Miss Lillian,’’ said 
Si Newman, as he called for a plug of Durham 
twist. “I reckon ef I know myself, she’ll be well 
looked arter. I reckon when the ole Squire’s last 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


87 


will and testament is read out, ye will all open yer 
peepers.” 

“Now, look yer, Marse Newman,” said old black 
Eph, as he tugged at his gray wool, and who had 
just come through the door in time to hear the 
last remark. “What all you'se tellin’ ’bout my ole 
Marse Granger. Wa’n’t he alius a frien’ to de 
whole bunch ob ye? Did ye eber go to him fer a 
favor an’ come away widout it? Now, my ole 
Marse Granger is shore daid, but ye better let his 
mem’ry res’ while his pore body’s out’n de groun’, 
an’ I jest wants ter tell yer, yo’ needn’t worry 
’bout my young missis while ole Eph and Judy’s 
livin’. Better let ’um res’,” and, with this trust of 
loyalty to his dead master and living mistress, he 
left the store. 

Saturday morning dawned clear and crisp, with 
sun shining brightly. By ten o’clock, the time set 
for the funeral, the house was filled to overflowing. 
Never had there been such a funeral in those parts. 
Friends, neighbors, sightseers, those who had never 
been privileged to see the interior of the Grange, 
were there in full force. The gossip-monger was 
there, too, for Alder Center was no exception to 
the rule at the average country funeral. Friends 
came for miles to pay their last respects to the dead. 
There were all classes and colors, from the humble 
wage-earner to the lawyers and judges from Alder- 
son and Bolton, and a couple came even from 
Boston. 

An unusual silence pervaded, for this was a very 
unusual funeral, inasmuch as there was not one 
blood relative there. He died as he had lived for 
years, a recluse. No one could ever remember the 


88 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


time when a relative had visited the Grange. Lillian 
St. Clair was the only real mourner present. 

After the funeral service, hired pall-bearers carried 
his body, according to the dead man’s request, to 
its last resting place in the old South church grave- 
yard, and his funeral was as much a ten days’ won- 
der as his sudden death had been. 

The will — no one seemed to know anything 
about it and many there were who went away 
sorely disappointed, for no mention whatever had 
been made of it. 


CHAPTER XL 

Twenty-four hours had now passed since the 
funeral and the terrible responsibility and anxiety 
that had engrossed Lillian was over'. Everything 
had been done according to the old man’s wishes. 
There was no more watching, no more planning; 
just the dull idleness that is the first awakening 
after a great loss was creeping over her and envelop- 
ing her. There was nothing she could do. The 
servants had settled back into their ordinary ways. 
The gloom of death had vanished. The windows 
and doors had been flung wide open. The sun had 
been invited to enter. Fresh autumn flowers were 
placed in all the rooms and every vestige of sorrow 
was banished. 

Lillian was alone. The harrowing thought of her 
loneliness, her desolation and homelessness after the 
morrow rushed over her and made it all the harder 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


89 


to bear. There was no one on earth to whom she 
could go. Her only friends were the humble ser- 
vants unto whom she had ministered from infancy, 
and those, she thought, could offer her nothing but 
gratitude and love. She tried, to decide what would 
be best for her to do, for Judge Palmer from Bolton 
was coming on the morrow to read the will, and then 
she must leav6 the dear old Grange she loved so 
well, the roof that had sheltered her for years. She 
fully realized that she had no legal right there nor 
was there any propriety in her staying on longer. 

The day after to-morrow, she would go and talk 
over the situation with her friends, the Phillips. 
After that, she would rent a little cottage in the 
suburbs of the village where she could go and take 
faithful Aunt Judy and Uncle Eph until she could 
make other plans to leave Alden and go out into 
the world, the great busy world, where she would 
create a place for herself. 

Squire Granger had gathered together for her the 
remnant of her father’s possessions, converted it 
into ready cash, and invested it. Lillian did not 
know the exact amount, and felt it could last only 
a short time, if she lived in idleness. 

A knock at the door aroused her, and at her 
summons to enter. Uncle Eph opened the door and 
said: “The young gemnan, Marse St. Alban, am in 
de lib’ary. Miss Lillian, and wants to see yo’, honey.” 

“Ask him to excuse me this evening,” she began, 
but on second thought, decided it would be as easy 
now as ever. So telling the servant she would be 
there at once, she closed the door, clasped her hands, 
and tried to prepare herself for the trying ordeal. 
She had asked him to be alone in her sorrow.| He 


90 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


had respectfully obeyed her request, and now she 
must see him. There was much need to be calm. 
There was pride to summon. The great sorrow she 
had passed through was vividly present. Now, a 
last prayer for guidance to bridge the gulf, that 
great, yawning gulf of years, that separated the 
present from the past. What should she do? 

At last, she arose and passed down to the library, 
self-possessed and calm. It was twilight; the room 
was dim; she could hardly see her visitor’s face. 
As St. Alban came toward her with out-stretched 
hand, he was shocked by her cold, calm voice. 

“Do you mind the twilight? If so, I will ring for 
candles.’’ 

“Not at all,’’ he replied, reseating himself and 
thankful for the twilight. “Miss St. Clair, I hesi- 
tated some time,” he ventured, “about intruding, 
but could wait no longer.” 

“That was why I respected your call and came 
down to see you,” Lillian replied. “I thought you 
were anxious to return home and would detain you 
no longer.” 

“I am anxious to return home, but still more 
anxious to take you with me. My God, Lillian, 
why this beating around the bush? It is madden- 
ing. I love you as never before, with all my soul — 
I beseech you to hear me. I have been on the rack 
for years trying to locate you and place you where 
you rightfully belong in my heart and home. Tell 
me that you give me, at once, the right to claim 
you as my wife and ever more smooth out the 
rough places in life. No one but God knows what 
I have endured.” 

“You are somewhat dilatory, Mr. St. Alban, in 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


91 


claiming your right. It is nearly eleven years since 
I last saw you, and time has worked many changes. 
I am free to confess I have resented your silence.” 

“For God’s sake, Lillian, allow me to explain and 
give me the benefit of a doubt that I am not as cruel 
as the past shows me to be. I have searched for 
years, north, south, east, and west for a trace of 
you; but not once have I succeeded until by chance, 
a few days ago, I heard your name mentioned and 
followed the clue. You will remember when Bob 
Wilbur and I left you and your friend after we were 
married; well, in less than twenty-four hours. Bob 
and I were separated. He was badly wounded and 
taken with others to a hospital somewhere. I never 
saw him after. I was taken prisoner, sent to Libby 
prison, Richmond, and was kept there six months 
and more. What I suffered there in mind and 
body is past relating. 

“On being exchanged, I was soon put in fighting 
order and took my place in the ranks again. About 
a year after, I heard that my friend. Bob, was 
killed, but never learned any particulars. I have 
inquired of hundreds of strangers, and have written 
dozens of letters, but never a clue of you or Miss 
Filmore. After the close of the war, I learned that 
Miss Filmore had disappeared from home with no 
trace or clue and had never been heard of since. 
Her mother never mentions her name, I hear, but 
has grieved and watched and prayed for years for 
her return. I learned by chance of the death of 
your father and brother, and, as soon as it was 
possible, visited your old home only to find it in 
ruins and deserted, with no trace whatever of your 
whereabouts. I have traveled aimlessly weeks at 


92 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


a time, peering into the face of every fair young 
woman, hoping to find my lost love.” 

“Stop, Ernest. I, too, have suffered. After the 
death of my twin brother, whom I adored, I had 
brain fever and was sent to my old Virginia home. 
I was barely convalescent, when my father was 
wounded. I hastened to Richmond, but was too 
late. The nurse gave me his last instructions: they 
were that I come to his old friend, Gideon Granger, 
whom he had made my guardian. She also gave me 
a sealed letter for my guardian. I hastened back 
to my old home, only to find it in ruins, completely 
devastated. I had hoped to stay there and recu- 
perate. I occupied a cabin till Lee’s surrender; 
then, in company with Aunt Judy and Uncle Eph, 
neither of whom would desert me, we came to dear 
old Uncle Granger, who has been the kindest and 
most considerate of guardians. I longed to know 
what had become of you and my dear friend, Mar- 
garet. I learned the man she married was seriously 
wounded and had sent for her. Afterward, the 
paper reported him among the dead. Of my friend, 
I have never heard, as I had no acquaintance with 
her mother and never even saw her; knowing of 
her stern Quaker pride, I never tried to find her. 
Oh! the ravages of that terrible war.” 

“Lillian, I am here to claim you. You are mine 
by the holiest tie God ever permitted man to pos- 
sess. I come to you in your extremity and sorrow, 
to plead for my heart’s sake and to tempt you, by 
the love and luxury I can offer you, to come to me, 
to endure my love and allow me to repay you for 
all the suffering of the past years by the truest, 
holiest love an honorable man can give. If you 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


93 


prefer, I will woo and win you gradually as a bride 
should be won. You shall be wife in name only 
until I can prove to you my faithfulness and love. 
Only come to me at once and I will work but for 
one aim, and that will be to restore the old love 
and affection you once held for me. Only try, dear 
heart. I will take the risk of teaching you to care 
for me again. You must satisfy yourself that I am 
what I represent myself to be. Go yourself or send 
some friend to search my record. But I can assure 
you that I have been just as loyal to our marriage- 
tie as though we had never been parted. 

“I beg of you to give me the right to protect 
you now in your hour of extremity. You may have 
felt neglected, dear heart, but I was not to blame. 
Others may have a formal alliance of love, but ours 
is a tried and trusted league of tender, thoughtful, 
though separated hearts. We still have loyal hearts, 
hearts to understand under trying circumstances, 
hearts that feel though far apart. I feel that the 
past years of suffering and sorrow are only the 
beginning of an endless future of love for each other. 
We will try to remember that it is the hand of God 
alone that weaves the pattern that He requires in 
the web of lives such as ours have been. His dis- 
pensations that have seemed afflictions to us have 
only prepared us that we may best do His work. 
Our afflictions, our trials, our sorrows, dear, these 
are the little threads of gold which, when woven 
together in the web of life, will gleam out brightly 
in the future pattern of the life God will approve 
of. I have the most explicit faith in your past.’’ 

“Oh, Ernest, I thought I had buried my love 
forever, but you shame me by your pure love and 


94 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


devotion. The old love has been resurrected. Let 
us live to know and care for each other once more. 
You speak of teaching me. I assure you, you will 
find an apt and willing pupil, for my love has known 
no change. I have waited and watched for your 
coming for years.” With a burst of joyful tears, 
she arose and advanced into his open arms. Rais- 
ing her eyes to his, she said: “I love you, dear, and 
all I ask for and want is only you and those dear 
old mountains to make me happy.” 

‘‘Thank God!” St. Alban exclaimed. “You are 
mine.” 


CHAPTER XII. 

“Aunt Judy, please tell Uncle Eph I want him, 
and then return to me.” 

Very soon, the two old colored people came slowly 
to their mistress. 

“Uncle Ephraim, saddle Jerry and take this letter 
to Mr. Nathaniel Wilbur, on Lebanon, and tell 
Aunt Rhue I will be there in a few days to see them. 
When you return, come directly to me.” 

After a moment’s silence. Aunt Judy looked up 
with a troubled face and asked: “Wha’ fo’, honey, 
is that strange gemnan aroun’ here so much? It 
seems mighty strange yo’s so took up wid him. 
Bettah beware, honey chil’, ol’ Judy knows. This 
’ere worl’ am sutney cur’us, but de Lawd knows 
all erbout dos t’ings, an’ ye know, honey, He ain’t 
got nuffin else ter do but ter riddle dem out ter 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


95 


suit Himself. An’ chil’, don’t cross de deep watahs 
till yer gits ter ’em. De good Book says: ‘De Lawd 
furnishes de temper fo’ de shorn lamb,’ an’ sho’ly 
yo’ am jes’ shorn to de hide. But nevah feah, 
honey, de brightes’ cloud am shore to hab the 
darkes’ linin’. 01’ Judy and Eph done goin’ ter 
take keer ob our lubly young missis. We hab 
sabed all de money Marse Granger done gib us an’ 
we kin wo’k yet, honey.” 

”0, you dear old Aunt Judy! I love you and 
appreciate your kindness; but you must not worry 
so about me and the young gentleman. He is 
going to take care of us all. Since Uncle Granger 
has given me this dear old home and all its contents, 
we will always spend our summers here, at least,” 
and Lillian proceeded to tell Aunt Judy the par- 
ticulars concerning Ernest St. Alban and their plans 
for the future. 


CHAPTER XHL 

Slowly, Nathaniel Wilbur turned the letter Uncle 
Eph had brought him over and over again. Then, 
going into the house, he said: 

“Mother, Uncle Eph hez jest brought this letter 
an’ er note frum Miss Lillian.” 

Aunt Rhue readjusted her spectacles and stood 
arms akimbo. 

“Per ther land’s sake. Father. What do yer sup- 
pose it means?” 

“Wall, Mother, it means thet this ’ere letter is 


96 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


frum ther dead. It wuz in ther Squire’s pocket 
when he died, so Lillian writes.” 

“Ye hed better read it at once ’fore Lyddy conies 
back. She’s jest gone ter Silverbeech Holler fer 
more ferns.” 

“All right, Mother, here goes.” 

He leisurely broke the seal and proceeded to 
read the communication. After some time. Aunt 
Rhue heard him exclaim: 

“Jerusalem crickets! Thunder an’ lightnin’l 
This beats all I ever heam tell uv.” This quickly 
brought her to his side. 

“Nathaniel Wilbur, do stop yer swearin’ an’ tell 
me what’s ther matter.” 

“Matter? Why ther Lord Almighty hez took 
holt uv affairs fer us. Mother, an’ made ol’ Gid 
Granger own up ther corn. Jest listen! Air ye 
plum sure there’s no one around?” 

Uncle Nat took off his steel-rimmed spectacles, 
polished them with his red bandanna, readjusted 
them, ran his bony fingers through his hair and 
beard, and said: “Thunder an’ lightnin’. Mother, 
I’m ez weak ez er rag.” 

Aunt Rhue drew a chair and sat down opposite, 
with eagerness written over her face. Uncle Nat 
smoothed out the letter, turned it over, and began 
to read : 

“Friend Wilbur: 

“I have felt for some time that I was not long for 
this world and am trying hard to make my peace 
with God. I am actually trembling, Nat, as I set 
myself about this task of confessing and restoring 
to you your honest legal rights. It is the one crime 
I have committed in my whole life, and I now 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


97 


cry out for mercy, but I am afraid you can never 
forgive me, for I have lived this black lie for years 
and robbed as honest a man as ever lived.’' 

“Fer th’ land’s sake. Father,” interrupted Aunt 
Rhue. “Wuz Gideon Granger crazy when he writ 
thet? No wonder he died sudden.” 

“Now, Mother, keep cool, an’ ye’ll open yer 
eyes wider yit.” And he read on : 

“You will remember, Nat, when the first draft 
was made in the late Civil War, the draft that com- 
pelled men to go to war or send a substitute. You 
will also remember how I shunted off the track of 
loyalty to my country like a cowardly craven, and 
hired you to go in my place as my substitute? You 
will also recall some special work you did for your 
country that counted much for glory, but of which 
little mention was ever made. Several years ago, 
out of gratitude to you, I commenced trying to 
get a pension for you, with back pay from the time 
you were wounded and sent home; and God knows, 
Nat, I was honest enough in the endeavor and 
truly meant to do you a good turn and surprise 
you if I succeeded.” 

“Wall, I never,” Aunt Rhue ejaculated, with 
uplifted hands. 

“As Justice of the Peace, I was favorably situated 
to transact all business necessary to secure the 
papers without your knowledge and, when the time 
came to have your signature, why, I just copied 
your name as you had written it here in my office 
when we were transacting legal business. Pardon 
the word, ‘copied,’ Nat, for it is hard to write 
‘forged,’ and yet it is branded into my soul so that 
I feel like a forger of the blackest dye. 


98 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


“My God, old friend, to think of a Granger doing 
such a thing as that, daily living a liar and forger. 
Well, when the time came that proved you were a 
regular pensioner and entitled to back pension, I 
thought I would send for you at once, but the 
temptation at that time for money was so great, I 
throttled the honest thought and forged your name 
again, thinking when the check or order came, I 
would surely send for you. About that time, a 
mortgage on the South Bend farm was due, and 
nothing to meet it with. So I took the money 
(your money, Nat, money, mind you, that you 
spilled your blood for in my cowardly place) and 
canceled that mortgage. Oh, God, if I could only 
undo that crime! 

“Well, I kept on, quarter after quarter, forging 
your name and signing mine with the same pen until 
I had received many hundred dollars that rightfully 
belonged to you. By this time, I was afraid of 
you — yes, actually afraid of you, coward that I 
have been. I was afraid of the law, afraid of God, 
and so I kept silent. 

“Finally, I could stand it no longer; so I wrote 
to the United States Government that Nathaniel 
Wilbur was dead, no heirs; but that did not satisfy; 
it has continued to haunt me day and night ever 
since. Verily the quotation that reads, ‘The wages 
of sin is death,’ will be verified in my case, for I 
know I am not long for this world. 

“I am enclosing a confession legally drawn up 
and signed, to be sent to the Pension-Office in 
Washington when I am dead; a confession that will 
restore your pension with back pay since I quit, since 
the time I lied and wrote you were dead — a pen- 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


99 


sion that will relieve your mind of taxes, interest 
money, and a few other vexatious things. I am 
also enclosing a check for five himdred dollars, the 
amount I owe you for pension-money received, and 
a deed personally made out and signed for the 
Simon Ross farm property out Lebanon way, the 
farm that adjoins yomrs. 

“I have notified the Bank of Bolton, in a paper 
to be handed in when I am gone, concerning the 
check which will be duly honored by cash when 
you sign and present it. There is just one thing, 
old friend, I beg of you with my dying breath: 
Don’t tell any one but Aunt Rhue, and I beg for 
forgiveness a thousand times for the great wrong I 
have done you and yours, for I have suffered untold 
punishment. Again, I humbly implore God and 
Nathaniel Wilbur to forgive the double life I have 
lived and blackened by forgery and wrong. 

“Gideon Granger, 
“Justice of the Peace, 
“Alden Center, Vt.” 

“Attest: 

“Peter Phillips. 

“Lillian St. Clair.” 

Uncle Nat wiped the perspiration from his 
wrinkled brow and asked: “Now, Mother, what do 
ye think uv thet?” 

“Wall, I’ll jest tell ye. Father, I think it’s best 
ter foller ther Golden Rule in this case. Miun’s 
ther word. We’ll jest do ez we’d like ter be done 
by, an’ may God hev mercy on Gideon Granger’s 
soul.” 

“It’s er tough pill ter swallow. Mother, but I 


100 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


guess yer erbout right. Well jest dump this tamal 
confession inter ther fire; fer I guess it’s graven into 
our souls all right.” 

“Why, Nat Wilbur, yell do nothin’ uv ther sort 
until thet pension is our’n, an’ thet deed is recorded 
safe on ther docket at Bolton. I guess thet leetle 
verse Lyddy likes so well will jest erbout fit in here : 

“ ‘Thar’s a wideness in God’s mercy 
Like ther wideness of ther sea. 

Thar’s er kindness in His justice 
Which is more than liberty.’ ” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

The winter that year made an early entrance to 
the mountains. It came at first with great, heavy 
dark clouds and gusts of snow that piled and drifted 
into huge winrows and it was all Philip could do 
with Uncle Nat’s feeble assistance, to keep open 
the paths to the bam and woodshed. 

Fortunately, there was an abundant supply of 
fuel. A wandering band of Canucks in search of 
work had been hired. Some snaked, with old Bess, 
many logs and butts from the west timber lot, 
while others with ready hand at ax and saw before 
many days had filled the large wood-shed and cord 
after cord ranged in even rows beside it. Great 
logs of beech and maple and birch would make 
lasting fires for the fire-places and would smolder 
to finest charcoal, that, with a generous sprinkle of 
ashes, would hold fire well into the morning. 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


101 


Occasionally, the weather would change, storms 
cease, and the bright sunshine brought out in sharp 
relief the distant mountain-summits wrapped in one 
dazzling mantle of snow. Especially beautiful was 
old Phanton top, with its deep lines and shadows. 

When possible, Philip had taken Lydia to school 
with old Bess hitched to the pung. They would 
nestle down in a bed of clean straw with a generous 
supply of home-made wool blankets. Lydia, with 
a warm stone at her feet and a baked potato right 
from the hot bed of charred coals, in each hand, 
defied the cold and enjoyed rather than dreaded the 
daily trip. Many a happy hour for both was thus 
passed. 

Since the death of Squire Granger, several months 
before. Uncle Nat had paid off one-half the mort- 
gage and interest in full as it came due, much to 
the amazement of old Silas White, who had patiently 
and eagerly watched for the chance to close up 
some deal whereby he could secure for his own the 
Wilbur place, the best farm on Lebanon. But 
Uncle Nat was wise, and when old Silas said, rub- 
bing his hands together: “Nathaniel, ye needn’t put 
yerself out tryin’ ter pay an)d:hing on ther mort- 
gage, jest keep up ther intrust,” it made Uncle 
Nat smile, but he replied: 

“Thank you, Silas, ye air kind, but er leetle 
pinchin’ here an’ thar ter git erlong an’ help lower 
ther intrust is my idee of gittin’ erlong. It goes 
ruther tough at ther time, but it’s comfortin’ in 
ther end,” and he planked down two himdred and 
fifty dollars in cash. 

“I’ll be gol darned, Nat Wilbur, ye take ther 
strength all outen me. Why, I’m ez limp ez er 


102 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


rag. Whar in thunder did ye git thet cash? Ye 
must hev struck er gold mine on Lebanon er hed 
er wind-fall.” 

“Now, look here, Silas, them’s all honest dollars 
an’ ye well know I’ve hed no dowry,” said Uncle 
Nat, as he gave his comforter another hitch and 
buttoned his great coat to go. 

“Don’t be in sich er hurry, Nat. I think ye jest 
better pay an even hundred this time. Ye see, ye 
might need er little ready money fer spring. I 
happen ter be er leetle forehanded jest now, an’ 
I’ll be glad ter help yer out.” 

“Thank you, Silas, but I kin spare it very well.” 

“Say, Nat,” and Silas pushed his coonskin cap 
back and scratched his head, “I’ve heerd something 
erbout yer tryin’ ter git er pension. It’s all tom- 
foolery, Nat. Yer time an’ money thrown erway 
ev’ry bit lost. I heerd down ter Bolton last week 
ye wuz tryin’.” 

“Wall, I guess ye heerd erbout right, Silas. I am 
tryin’ fer a pension an’, ef I do git it, ye an’ I’ll 
be quits next intrust time.” 

“No hiury, no hurry, Nat; take all ther time yer 
want. I alius like ter ’commodate er neighber; but, 
say, do yer want ter sell yer farm at er good figger?” 

“No, Silas, it’s er good place an’ yields er good 
livin’.” 

“Wall, Nat, I’ve heerd ther farm next youm thet 
belonged ter Squire Granger ez fer sale. I guess 
I’ll buy thet, fer I’d sure like dum well ter own er 
farm on Lebanon.” 

“I don’t believe yer kin buy thet farm jinin’ 
mine, either, fer I don’t want ter sell.” 

“Thunder an’ lightnin’, air ye crazy, Nat? What 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


103 


do ye mean? I’d like ter know what you’ve got ter 
say erbout it.” 

”0, nothin’ much, Silas, only yer better s’arch 
ther docket down ter Bolton ’fore ye talk much 
erbout buyin’. Ye might git disappointed,” and 
Uncle Nat left the room, smiling. 

It was only two days before Thanksgiving, and 
the snow was coming down in soft feathery flakes. 
Uncle Nat and Philip had gone down West Alden 
way, snaking some logs to the saw-mill to have some 
lumber sawed, just the right length to build a new 
lean-to on the east side of the bam, and were com- 
ing back by the general store and post-office. Aunt 
Rhue was busy frying doughnuts, and would give 
an occasional peep in the oven to watch the process 
of baking, for there were spicy mince pies, and the 
rich golden hue of the fat pumpkin must be browned 
to a turn. The cranberry sauce, well sweetened 
with maple sugar, was simmering on the back of the 
stove, and on an adjacent table, the plump yellow 
body of a perfectly cleaned and tmssed turkey was 
lying ready for the filling on the morrow. A delight- 
ful spicy odor pervaded the clean kitchen as the 
busy housewife stepped lively about her homely tasks. 

Lydia had not gone to school that day. Aunt 
Rhue had needed her. She had finished all the 
tasks her grandmother had planned for her, also 
her sums and geography. She had bmshed up the 
hearth with the speckled turkey-wing, beat up the 
feather cushions on lounge and rockers, brought in 
and arranged the great bunches of barberry and 
bittersweet Philip had cut for her, and had daintily 
arranged them in pitcher and bowl. 


104 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


“Grandma, how old was I when my mother died,” 
she asked. 

“La, child, what put sich a question into yer head 
this cold, stormy day?” 

“Won’t you please tell me. Grandma? Other 
little girls know about their mothers.” 

“Wall, Lyddy, jest let me think. Ye war erbout 
er month old an’ a leetle bit bigger than old tabby 
cat over there.” 

“Did mv mother die here in this house. Grandma ?” 

“Yes, Lyddy, she did. She put ye in my arms 
an’ said: ‘I give my baby ter you. Mother.’ Now 
run erlong an’ finish yer jobs an’ I’ll tell ye ther 
rest emother time.” 

“Just one more question. Grandma. Have you 
a picture or anything that belonged to my very own 
mother?” 

“Yes, Lyddy, I hev, an’ ye shall hev them some 
day fer yer own. Now, lun erlong, child. Yer 
grandfather an’ Philip will be here soon, cold an’ 
hungry. The wind is risin’ an’ it’ll be cold on 
Lebanon ter-night.” 

“Thank you. Grandma. May I kiss you just 
once?” 

“La, child, what makes yer act so?” But she 
stooped and pressed the young, fresh face against 
her wrinkled cheek. 

“That makes me feel better, and you know I 
really belong to you because my precious mother 
gave me to you. I love you, but oh! I wish I had 
a mother. If it is clear to-morrow, and I go to 
school, do you care if I carry and put some of those 
beautiful green leaves and bright berries on Father’s 
and Mother’s graves?” 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


105 


“Yes, Lyddy, ef ye want ter,” and Aunt Rhue 
turned and wiped her eyes with the comer of her 
apron. “Pore little thing, jest ten year an’ er leetle 
over,’’ she murmured as Lydia left the room. 

Soon, the tinkle tankle of Bess’s solitary bell 
heralded the return of the men folk, as Aunt Rhue 
called them. Lydia scampered to greet her grand- 
father. 

Uncle Nat came in, after stamping the snow from 
his feet in the little entry. He slowly unwound his 
comforter, hung up his cap, unbuttoned his great 
coat, and hung it on its customary peg. Lydia put- 
ting her hand in his, said : 

“Here, Grandpa, is your chair all ready for you, 
and the little cricket to put your feet on to warm 
and dry them before the fire.’’ 

“Thankee, Lyddy, ye air er thoughtful child. 
Jest see what I’ve got fer ye,’’ and he slowly drew 
a letter from his pocket. 

“O, Grandma! a letter, a really, tmly letter!]’ 
cried the child. “May I open it now or wait until 
after supper?” 

“La, child, open yer letter. Set right down by 
yer grandpa, an’, if ye can’t make it out, he’ll 
help ye.” 

Lydia was soon curled up on the rag mg before 
the fire. Slowly, she opened it, then carefully spread 
it out, smoothing out the creases. Then, leaning 
her elbows on her knees, and holding the letter in 
both hands, read aloud: 

“Dear Lydia: 

“I can not resist the temptation to write thee a 
letter and send greetings to thy grandparents in 
return for all the kind hospitality meted out to me 


106 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


when on your far-off Lebanon. Thy little face 
comes often before my mind’s eye, and I find my- 
self longing to hold thy little hand in mine. 

“The maple nut candy was delicious and the 
honey thy grandmother tucked in my luncheon-box 
was greatly appreciated. The little fern from Silver- 
beech Hollow, near that beautiful spring, is growing. 
Two tiny frond heads have begun to show and the 
whole fern looks beautifully green. As the holidays 
approach, I find myself longing to be on Lebanon, 
but, as that is impossible, the next best thing will 
be to forward the little remembrances I am prepar- 
ing for thee and thy loved ones. So look out for 
St. Nicholas, by the way of Silas Newman and the 
Overland. I often think of thee and thy grand- 
parents. Wilt thou write me and tell me what thee 
would like best for thy Christmas. Ask thy grand- 
father if young Philip may put a sheaf of grain on 
a pole for the birds’ holiday treat. My kindest re- 
gards to all on Mt. Lebanon, and kindly write to 
thy friend, 

“Margaret Filmore, 
“1105 Chestnut St., 
“Philadelphia, Pa.’’ 

“Now, Grandma, what do you think of my letter, 
and may I answer it?’’ 

“Yes, Lyddy, yer letter is all right, child, an’ ye 
kin answer it ef ye want to; but be keerful ye don’t 
ask fer too much. Remember, ye hain’t no claim 
on ther lady. But, arter Thanksgivin’, ye kin write 
yer letter.’’ 

“Thank you. Grandma; I will do as you say.’’ 

She carefully folded and put away the letter, and 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


107 


was soon humming her favorite hymn as she hastily 
went about setting the table for supper. As she 
passed her grandfather, he put his arm around her 
and said : 

“Ye like yer old grandpa a bit, don’t ye, Lyddy ?’’ 

That evening, after Philip and Lydia had gone to 
bed and everything was in order. Aunt Rhue drew 
her little splint bottom rocker nearer to the fire, 
and, reaching for the poker, deliberately drew the 
fallen brands together before the back log, put on 
a fresh fore stick, brushed the hearth, and settled 
back in her chair, while her knitting dropped un- 
heeded to the floor. Then, she carefully smoothed 
out her gingham apron, and, picking up the hem, 
commenced folding and unfolding the pleats she 
made in a nervous manner. 

The rain and sleet rattled against the windows, 
and the wind growled down the chimney. Uncle 
Nat laid aside the weekly paper and stretched his 
stockinged feet toward the fire. Then, he placed 
his hands behind his head and locking his fingers, 
said: 

“Wall, Mother, it’s a reg’lar nor’easter. ^ I’m glad 
ther new fold fer ther Southdowns is finished, fer 
it’s gittin’ time fer good, snug weather.’’ 

“Yes, I know it is. Father, an’ I’m glad ther fold 
is done; but do ye happen ter remember what time 
uv ther year it is?’’ 

“Yer right, I do. Mother. I recollect exactly 
what happened ten years ago this time.’’ 

“Wall, Father, I’m mighty glad you do an’ I’d 
like ter ask what ye think we’d better do erbout 
thet tamal letter. Lyddy’s gittin’ mighty cur’us 
ter know erbout her parents an’ ye can’t blame ther 


108 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


child. She’s ten year old an’ ye know ther time’s 
drawin’ nigh ter fulfill ther promise cornin’ New- 
year’s Day. Ye well remember ther promise we 
made Robert’s wife, don’t ye?” 

“Yes, I only too well remember an’ I feel it in 
my bones thet it’s er goin’ erg’inst us ter read thet 
letter; but right is right, an’ I ain’t er goin’ ter 
stand back when ther time comes. I’ve been think- 
in’,” Uncle Nat went on, running his fingers through 
his beard, “erbout this ve^ thing, night an’ day, 
fer some time, an’ I jest wish we could pitch ther 
whole thing consamin’ our leetle girl inter ther fire 
an’ see it go up in smoke. It nigh makes me crazy 
ter think uv what might come ter us if we foller 
ther directions in thet thar letter. Did ye ever 
think. Mother, erbout thet little woman all in gray 
an’ so quietlike, thet wuz here last fall an’ who 
wrote ther letter Lyddy got ter-night ? Sometimes, 
I’ve thought maybe she hed er ax ter grind, pokin’ 
around here an’ visitin’ ther graveyard an’ sich.” 

“O, pshaw. Father, she wuz jest er traveler an’ 
hed no notion er hankerin’ arter any one on Lebanon ; 
but, come ter think uv it, she did look mighty cur ’us 
at Lyddy sometimes. But what is troublin’ me is 
what air we goin’ ter do ’bout thet letter?” 

“Wall, Mother,” and Uncle Nat straightened up, 
“we’ll jest settle thet matter right now. When ther 
time comes, we’ll take thet letter an’ sit right down 
ez though Robert an’ his pretty wife wuz here, an’ 
we’ll read ev’ry word, an’ then, God helpin’ us, 
we’ll call Lyddy in an’ both put our arms eroun’ 
her an’ read ev’ry word uv it ter her, let it be fur 
er ag’inst us. We’re not goin’ back on our word 
ter thet pore leetle dyin’ mother, if ther whole 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


109 


caboodle goes ter smash. No, siree, Lyddy’s not 
goin’ ter be cheated out uv one single word her 
mother writ. I have thought, Mother, ef things 
wuz ter come our way with ther mortgage paid off, 
an’ ther income frum ther Granger farm an’ thet 
air pension cornin’ in, we could do purty fair by 
Lyddy when ther time come. Ez fer ther schoolin’, 
she could go ter Alderson fer er spell arter she wuz 
through at Alden Center, an’, ef she wuz really sot 
on it, she could go ter college.” 

“Wall, Father, them air jest my own feelin’s, an’ 
I hev thought thet, by skimpin’ er leetle here an’ 
thar, we might manage ter git Lyddy er melodeon 
arter a while. She is jest sot on notes an’ music, 
but not er might more than I wuz at her age. Tell 
yer. Father, this talk hez lifted er load of’n my 
mind, an’ we’ll bide by jest what ye’ve said. Lyddy’ll 
hev her right, hit er miss. Ye’d better fix ther fire 
now, while I wind ther clock; an’ bank it good, fer 
it’ll be a snappy momin’ on Lebanon. Is every- 
thing ready fer ther hog-killin’ ther day arter 
Thanksgivin’ ?” 

“Yes, Mother, everything’s ready. Jack an’ 
Hank, ther Canucks thet helped with ther wood, 
will be on hand bright an’ early. We’d better turn 
in; it’s gettin’ late,” and he laid his hand on her 
shoulder and touched her forehead in loverlike 
fashion. 


no 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


CHAPTER XV. 

To the west of the farmhouse, a hill meadow lay 
high up the slope and afforded a far-off view of the 
distant snow-capped mountains. 

The ice queen had cast a glittering coat of crystal 
on tree and shrub, and, during the night, her icy 
breath had completely covered everything. As 
Lydia stood before the window and brushed away 
the frost, her eyes looked out on a new world of 
fairylike beauty. The distant mountain-tops seemed 
to dip into the cold, clear, blue sky above and 
formed dark shadows where the sun failed to pene- 
trate. Even the dark, jutting rocks and field-stone 
fences were bedecked with a crystal covering, and 
everything glistened and sparkled as if unseen hands 
had been busy during the long, cold night. 

Lydia thoroughly enjoyed the magnificent winter 
scene spread before her, or she never would have 
tarried so long in the little, cold, frosty room to 
enjoy it. As she stood looking out, she said to 
herself : 

“I wonder what is the matter with Grandpa and 
Grandma. They have scarcely smiled since Thanks- 
giving and seem so quietlike, but O, so kind and 
thoughtful to me. Only Philip and Rover and Tab 
seem the same. Everything seems so quiet and 
strange some way. I do wonder why it is, and, 
since Mr. St. Alban took dear Miss Lillian away, 
there seems to be no one who understands me. My, 
I must hurry and help Grandma with the breakfast 
and tidy up for her before I go to school. Poor, 
dear Grandma, she doesn’t seem like herself, and I 
must help her all I can. Why, her hand trembled 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


111 


SO last night when she handed me the milk at 
supper-time, that it ran down the side of my por- 
ringer. But the sun is shining brightly, and that 
is a good omen, teacher says.” 

Dropping to her knees beside her little bed, she 
clasped her chilled hands and said: “Dear Jesus 
that knows ever3d:hing, help me to understand bet- 
ter about dear Grandma and Grandpa and keep 
me well and strong so I can take care of them, for 
Thy sake. Amen.” 

Hastily rising and rubbing her cold fingers, she 
ran down-stairs and was soon busily engaged in the 
little duties so plentiful about a farm-kitchen. 
After breakfast, as her grandfather left the table, 
he laid his hand on Lydia’s head and said: 

“I think ye’d better stay home ter-day, Lyddy. 
Yer grandma’ll be purty busy with ther extry 
Canucks ter cook fer, beside her gineral housework 
ter do. I’m sorry ter bring extry work fer her, but 
ther addition to ther hay-bam must be finished an’ 
those Canadians air so strong to help lift ther heavy 
timbers. I think we’ll finish ter-day, at any rate.” 

“No, Father, Lyddy must go ter school with 
Philip ter-day. I want some tradin’ done at ther 
store, an’ Philip can’t drive Bess an’ steady thet 
’ere baskit uv eggs, an’ ther two rolls of butter air 
promised at ther parson’s ter-day. Some circle is 
meetin’ thar.” 

“Thank you. Grandma, but I’d rather stay and 
help you, if you need me. But isn’t it a glorious 
morning? Everything is so beautiful. Just look 
at the trees. Grandma, and the lilac-bushes. They 
are covered with a crystal that looks like I imagine 
diamonds would in the sun.” 


112 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


“Yes, Lyddy, they air purty, but run erlong, 
child, an’ be sure ye tie yer hood down snug an’ 
pull yer mittens up good. Whar’s yer tippet ? Ye’ll 
need it cornin’ up Lebanon way ter-night. Hadn’t 
ye better tuck in an extry Northern Spy fer yer 
teacher?’’ and she handed her a noble specimen, 
polished to a ruby hue. 

“O, Philip, isn’t this a glorious morning?’’ ex- 
claimed Lydia, as they drove down Alden way; “and 
doesn’t old Phanton top away yonder, with its 
lights and shadows, look just like a sentinel placed 
there to guard the portals of heaven? You see, it 
is much taller than all the rest. Its head seems to 
completely overtop the others and then its white 
ermine mantle of snow makes it look as I said, just 
like a sentinel. Philip, just look over Baldy way. 
The soft clouds seem to flutter about it and sail 
away toward heaven. Oh! this glorious morning!’’ 

“Say, Lyddy, do you know you scare me some- 
times when you talk this way. I never heard any 
one talk so before except teacher and that fellow 
that was here last summer. Why, he even saw 
beauty in old rocks and stones to admire. I see 
the mountains and the sunshine and woods, but as 
for sentinels and mantles and such things, you have 
surely got me there.’’ 

“Why, Philip Strong, your sense of appreciation 
is sadly deflcient. Cultivate it, cultivate it.’’ 

“There you go again, Lyddy, but I want to tell 
you, you’re all right and I like you better than any 
girl in school.’’ 

Lydia looked up into Philip’s face and, as she 
laid her mittened hand on his arm, she said: “Thank 
you, Philip; and I like you, too.” 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


113 


^ “Fly round, Lyddy, clar erway ther supper an 
tidy up, while I wash ther dishes; an’, Philip, ye 
fill ther wood-box an’ bring in er extry back stick, 
fer I must finish them mittens fer Si Newman’s 
Christmas. That reminds me, Lyddy, Si brought 
in emother letter fer yer ter-day, an’ land only 
knows who could hev writ ter yer ergin; an’ say, 
Lyddy, it’s erbout ther proper time ter answer 
yer letter frum Philadelphy an’ git it off ter-morrer.’’ 

“O, Grdndma! another real letter for me? May 
I just peep at the address and see my own name 
written in full on it?’’ 

“Sure, child, ef it’ll do yer any good. Did yer 
git ther raisins an’ New Orleans. I’ve biled ther 
cider ter-day an’ everything’s ready fer ther 
Christmas mince meat, except ther lean meat frum 
ther pig’s shoulder, an’ yer grandpa’ll git thet ready 
ther first thing ter-morrer morning.’’ 

“O, Grandma, it’s from Denver, Colorado. Who 
do you think would write to me from there? But 
we will soon know. Please, Grandma, will you 
put in an extra gingersnap to-morrow for little Tim 
Markham. He told me to-day he didn’t have gin- 
gersnaps any more since his mother died, so I gave 
him mine, and my apple, too.’’ 

“Yes, Lyddy, I’ll put in an extry in yer lunch 
ter-morrer. Now, hurry, child, be spry. Your 
letter’ll keep.’’ 

“Grandma, do you know when I see my whole 
name. Miss Lydia Wilbur, written in full, it makes 
me feel like a grown-up young lady.” 

Lydia laid the letter away and was soon happily 
engaged in putting things to rights, nor did she stop 
until the last indoor chore was finished, even to the 


114 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


brushing of the hearth, and Aunt Rhue was seated 
in her rocker, with knitting in hand. Then, the 
little girl drew her stool near her grandmother and, 
seating herself, carefully scrutinized the address on 
the letter again. Borrowing a knitting-needle, she 
ran it through the end of the envelope and drew 
forth the letter. 

“Greeting to all on Lebanon 

and a hearty handshake : 

“Dear Miss Lydia: 

“I am off to-morrow for California. A merry 
Christmas to you all, and may Santa Claus by way 
of Si Newman and the Overland bring you every- 
thing you desire, from a box of paints to an eider- 
down robe. Say, Lydia, won’t you paint me a spray 
of Vermont pine with the little brown cones on, like 
you used to bring in when returning from one of 
your woodland haunts. I have a friend who would 
like a drawing of the bee-hive out by your grand- 
father’s grape-arbor, one with the busy little labor- 
ers humming around. You can touch it up with 
the water-colors that Santa will bring; for he is 
going to tuck in a little book- for beginners in paint- 
ing. My friend will pay liberally for such a picture 
as I have described. He will use it for a magazine 
illustration. 

“I can see you all in my mind’s eye, sitting before 
the fire-place with Uncle Nat’s pitcher of cider near 
the hot coals to mull, and a dish of ruddy-cheeked 
Spys on Aunt Rhue’s little candle-stand; and I can 
imagine the thud, thud of Philip’s hammer as he 
cracks the walnuts for maple taffy. Be sure and 
save some for me. 

“I can also hear the hum of the spinning-wheel 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


115 


and see Aunt Rhue twisting the roll of carded wool 
as she steps backward and forward in drawing out 
the fine, crosbanded yam. You remember she 
showed me how she did it when I was there, and I 
imagine Uncle Nat with his cards, making the soft 
fleecy rolls. How I wish I could be there for Christ- 
mas, for you know I have no home; but I must wait 
until spring for all my specimens are no doubt 
covered with snow, so I must hie away to a warmer 
climate. 

“Hope you are all well and that Uncle Nat has 
entirely recovered. I hope the chair was of some 
use. A merry Christmas and a happy New-year. 

“Your sincere friend, 

“Philir Amistrong. 

“P. S. Will write you when I am settled in California. ’ ’ 

“There, Grandma, what do you think of that,” 
said Lydia, as she laid the letter on the stand for 
Uncle Nat and Philip to read. 

“Wall, Lyddy, I think he is er likely an’ good 
young man, an’ he don’t belong to no common class 
either; an’ ef he would ever stay long emuf in one 
place, we would send him er leetle box frum Lebanon. 
He’s what I call er sensible young man. Lyddy, ye’d 
better write ter thet woman in Philadelphy an’ hev 
it done with. Ye’ll find paper an’ ink in yer grand- 
pa’s desk. Better light emother candle.” 

After some time, Lydia came to her grandmother 
and read the letter she had written, her first real 
letter: 

“Mrs. Film ore, 

“Dear Madam: 

“You asked me to tell you what I would like for 


116 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


Christmas. I hardly know because I have so many 
nice things right here on Lebanon, but I would 
like a book and some colored pencils; but I would 
much rather you would send something to Grandpa 
and Grandma, and if it is not asking too much, just 
a little something for Philip, he is so kind. I asked 
him about putting up the sheaf of grain for the 
birds at Christmas time, and he said he would 
willingly do it. Grandpa says buckwheat is best. 

“I think after all, the best way would be for you 
to send just what you think best. Never mind 
about the book or pencils for me. It was lovely of 
you to think of us, and we thank you kindly. 
Grandpa has finished making the sausage meat and 
a long row of pans in the pantry are full of white, 
glistening lard. He has also finished packing the 
side meat of Patsy and Pat, and their hams are 
smoking over a smudge of sweet corn-cobs. Grandpa 
says sweet corn-cobs are best. 

“Grandma is busy with her mincemeat and other 
Christmas fixings. Philip is picking over the North- 
ern Spys. He has finished the Rhode Island Green- 
ings and Gilly Flowers. 

“To-morrow is Sunday and, if it is fine, Philip 
and I are going to Sunday-school. I am knitting 
some wristlets for Grandpa and Philip for Christ- 
mas. Do you ever wear wristlets in the winter? 
Grandma spins every evening. I knit and Grandpa 
and Philip card the wool or work on the nicest 
splint baskets. I would like to see you again. We 
all send regards. 


“Lydia Wilbur.” 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


117 


CHAPTER XVI. 

It was the day before Christmas and everybody 
on Lebanon was busy. Philip had brought Lydia 
a fine little spruce tree and an armful of ground 
pine and barberry bush that he had gathered and 
carefully hidden away in the bam before the deep 
snow came. Even Aunt Rhue was enthused and 
had offered to help with the wreaths after every- 
thing else had been done about the house for the 
morrow. As usual, a large turkey gobbler was rest- 
ing, all filled and tmssed, within the great baking- 
pan, ready to slip into the oven for the Christmas 
dinner. 

Little orphan Tim and sister Anna were invited 
as was also Si Newman, to partake of the Christmas 
dinner. Uncle Si was to bring the children from 
Alden way with him. Lydia had wreaths for every 
available place in the house and had even hung some 
on the sheep-fold, for she remarked that sheep 
played a remarkable part in the history of the birth 
of Him whose birth they were about to celebrate. 
“You know,” she said, “shepherds were watching 
their flocks of sheep when they saw the star and 
there were sheep in the stable where the Savior 
was bom.” 

Si Newman had brought two boxes, one from 
Philadelphia and one from Denver, Colorado, and 
for several days, Lydia and Philip were filled with 
curiosity and wonder over their contents. To-night, 
they were to be opened by Grandpa, after the chores 
were all done. Lydia could har^y wait. She had 
mysteriously smuggled the gold piece the Quakeress 
had given her, into Si Newman’s possession with 


118 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


instructions what to buy in Alderson. ^ For her 
grandfather, there was to be a new pipe and a 
bundle of his favorite tobacco; for her grandmother, 
a little gray shawl of finest wool and a goodly package 
of her favorite Imperial Tea; for Philip, there must 
be a combination knife with screw-driver, file, and 
tweezers. Si Newman told her it was a piece of 
extravagance to think of such a knife, but Lydia 
would get it. 

Christmas Eve came at last. The last job was 
completed and Uncle Nat was ready, with hatchet 
in hand, to open the wonderful boxes. He chose 
the one from Philadelphia first, and from its secret 
depths drew forth books and colored pencils in 
plenty. For Lydia, there came forth material for 
two new dresses of warm, fine merino, several pairs 
of mittens and gloves, a bright crimson eider-down 
hood with ribbons of same color that brought forth 
exclamations of delight from them all. There were 
warm leggins and a substantial waterproof for stormy 
days and various knickknacks that a young girl 
could use, the like of which Lydia had never seen 
before. A most beautiful chinchilla shawl and hood 
to match for Aunt Rhue made her very proud and 
thankful, and the “do tell,” and “I declar’ ” from 
Uncle Nat, when the folds of a splendid chinchilla 
scarf were flaunted before him, and a pair of warm 
felt slippers with a “golden eagle” well wrapped in 
tissue paper and tucked snugly in the toe of one, 
was brought to sight, expressed his delight. 

Philip was well remembered; but when a warm 
storm-coat came out of its wrappings, with a cap 
to match and a pair of gauntlet driving-gloves he, 
could not restrain himself, and, catching Lydia 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


119 


whirled her round and round, both their eyes shin- 
ing with happiness and delight. 

From Colorado came books and paints, drawing- 
paper and pencils, a handsome writing-desk of pol- 
ished cherry, with the initials, “L. W.,” inlaid with 
silver, well stocked with every requisite. Also, 
for Lydia, was a pair of light-weight rubber boots, 
lambswool-lined, and for Philip the same, only more 
strongly made; for Uncle Nat there was a wonderful 
carved pipe ; and for Aunt Rhue came a most beauti- 
ful leather-boimd Bible, with her name in gold on 
the cover. The little Markhams were substantially 
remembered, so was Si Newman, who cried: “Pll be 
goldamed, Lyddy, ye air all right,” as she slipped a 
pair of gay wristlets over his hardened, knotty hands. 
He gave her a little book of fairy tales. For thanks, 
she said : 

“Uncle Si, may I give you just a Christmas kiss?” 

This made his heart warm and a lump raise in his 
throat. 

“This is er leetle too much ter spring on er feller 
unawares,” he said, wiping his eyes. 

Lydia, on going to bed Christmas night, tired 
but very happy, flung her arms around her grand- 
mother and said: “Grandma, this has been the 
happiest day of my life.” As she released her arms. 
Aunt Rhue drew her hand slowly from her bosom 
and placed in Lydia’s hand a tiny package tied with 
a faded ribbon, and said: “Open it, Lyddy.” 

“Oh, oh!” Lydia exclaimed, as she drew forth a 
small gold locket and chain. “Oh, Grandma, where 
did you get it? How beautiful it is!” 

Aunt Rhue took it in her hands, tremblingly 
opened it, pointed to its contents, and said: “There, 


120 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


Lyddy, is the likeness uv yer own mother an’ father, 
an’ I guess this will end our Christmas. Now, don’t 
ask any questions till arter New-year’s. I’spose I 
oughter hev kept it till then, but I reckon it’ll do 
yer ez much good now ez ever.” 

”0, Grandma,” cried Lydia, almost faint with 
joy, and with tears of gladness in her eyes. ”0, 
you dearest of all granchnas! Of all the presents I 
ever had, this is the very best. It is almost too 
good to be true, and I don’t believe the wise men 
who found the precious infant, Jesus, in the manger, 
could have been any happier than I. I will just 
put it under my pillow, and it will be the next 
thing to having a really truly father and mother. 
Thank you again and again for this precious gift.” 

Uncle Nat took off his spectacles and wiped them, 
and a tear stole down Aunt Rhue’s cheek. She laid 
her hand on Lydia’s head as she kissed her and 
said: “Better run erlong ter bed, Lyddy. Yer can- 
dle’s sputterin’ now. Don’t git up till I call ye 
termorrer momin’.” 

Lydia stopped to give Uncle Nat a kiss and hug 
and said: “Grandpa, did you know Grandma had 
this surprise for me?” 

“Yes, yes, Lyddy, I did; but you’re tired an’ 
better run erlong ter bed. It’s gittin’ purty late.” 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


121 


CHAPTER XVII. 

New-year’s day dawned clear and bright on 
Lebanon. Every one was astir as usual. The chil- 
dren had gone to school, chores all done, the kitchen 
was in perfect order, and Uncle Nat was reading 
the Weekly Chronicle. Tremblingly, Aunt Rhue 
approached him and, laying her hand on his shoulder, 
said: 

“Father, you know what day this is. Shall we 
read that letter?’’ 

“Might ez well. Mother,’’ he replied. 

She drew from her pocket the letter her son’s wife 
had given her ten years ago, and handed it to him. 
He drew a chair near him and said: 

“Sit down. Mother, right here by me an’ we will 
tackle this business at once an’ hev it off our minds.’’ 

He took off his glasses slowly, polished and read- 
justed them, cleared his throat, and opened the 
letter. Everything was painfully quiet. The only 
sound was the loud purring of old Tabby, lazily 
stretched out before the fire. With a quiver in 
his voice. Uncle Nat began to read: 

“To Robert’s mother and father, and when read 
please send to the address you will find at the close 
of this letter. 

“The Doctor says I can never be well, and I feel 
eternity drawing and before it is too late, I must 
pen the history of the last two years to clear the 
future of my precious babe and my own good name. 
You, as well as my own mother, will remember the 
terrible ravages the late war made, and how thou- 
sands of young men and old, good and bad, were 
wounded and killed. Mother will also remember 


122 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


the hundreds who were rushed in to dear old Wash- 
ington where hastily improvised hospitals were pre- 
pared and soon filled, and of the hurried call for 
volunteer nurses, and of how I begged and pleaded 
to go to one of them and do what I could to help 
alleviate suffering humanity. 

“Finally, on a hot, sultry day, when a new batch 
of wounded Union soldiers was rushed in, a most 
imperative call was made for nurses. My mother 
at last consented for me to go, but under the watch- 
ful care of our family physician, old Doctor Wilsey. 
Never shall I forget the sight as I entered the barren 
hall they called hospital. I was delegated at once 
as a night-nurse and went the rounds with the 
doctor. He quietly gave the necessary directions 
for each patient, then left me with two other nurses 
to get through the night as best we could. 

“Oh! the harrowing, sickening experience of that 
night; the horrible oaths, the pitiful moans, the 
earnest prayers, all mingled, of those wounded men. 
Some had lost a leg, some a foot or an arm, many 
severely and others fatally wounded. In my ward 
were two soldiers, one cursing the fate that brought 
him to the war, the other bemoaning the necessity 
that laid him aside. In his delirium, he was a child 
at his mother’s knee, with his little sister, Emily, 
saying their ‘Now I lay me down to sleep.’ Again, 
he was doing chores on the dear old Vermont farm; 
then, conversing with his mother, and at another 
time, he was hoisting the stars and stripes. 

“The suffering, the sorrow, the grief within those 
walls, and there was so much to do : bandages to roll, 
lint to scrape, pillows to smooth, letters to read, let- 
ters to write, confidences to hear, hearts to cheer. 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


123 


eyes to close as the last roll call taps were sounded. 
Well, as one of my patients, Robert Wilbur, gradu- 
ally gained in strength, he was anxious to get back 
to his place in the firing line. He was no coward.” 

At this, Uncle Nat dropped the letter and clasped 
his hands. “Thank God, he was no coward,” he 
murmured. 

“Doctor Wilsey forbade him even to think of it. 
His convalescence was slow and we were thrown 
much together. There was another young soldier, 
St. Alban, by name, and he, with my chum, Lillian 
St. Clair, formed a pleasant circle. We were as 
supremely happy as young lovers could be. Fin- 
ally, I told my mother of Robert’s love and asked 
that he might come home with me sometimes. She 
was very angry and forbade him the house, and also 
said that I must give him up. But Robert and I 
spent much time together and when the call came 
for Robert and St. Alban to go, we separated as 
betrothed lovers and would be married at the close 
of the war. I told my mother all. She said I 
would be no child of hers if I did, that she would 
disinherit and disown me, that I must give up the 
soldier adventurer, that she had other plans for me. 
I said nothing but settled down to my regular 
hospital work quietly and bided my time.” 

“God love her,” said Aunt Rhue. 

“One dark, rainy night about six months later, 
a servant brought me a note and said a messenger 
was waiting for a reply. It was from Robert. He 
wrote that he and St. Alban were off for the far 
South the next day to engage in heavy fighting. 
They could not leave without seeing us. Their 
regiment was all ready and they had walked and 


124 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


ridden horseback twenty-five miles to see us before 
they left for battle; and asked that Lillian and I 
would meet them for a last good-by. Hastily writ- 
ing that we would be there, we despatched the answer 
by the messenger. Fortunately, it was my night 
off and nothing to hinder me. I went at once to 
my chum and she made arrangements to get off 
for a few hours. I put a rainy-day skirt over my 
uniform, a long water-proof cloak, little close hat, 
and thick veil, and was soon on my way to meet 
Robert. 

“When I reached the place, which was not far, 
Lillian was there, and we at once proceeded to plan 
a walk that we might visit and talk over our future 
plans. We started out Georgetown Road, as being 
the most pleasant and quiet. I will not go into 
details, but the happiest hours of my life were 
spent that dark rainy night. Well, the culmination 
of that trip was that, at ten o’clock that night, we 
were married at a Baptist parsonage, by the Rev. R. 
Thompson, of the First Baptist Church, and wit- 
nessed by his wife and maid. After the ceremony, 
we were a bit frightened and hardly knew what to 
do. Robert had slipped a thin gold ring from his 
finger for our marriage-tie. After a hurried walk 
back toward the hospital, the young men going as 
near as we thought safe, we said om- last good-by 
and pledged eternal love and loyalty to each other. 
Then, we separated, the soldiers to face a coming 
battle, and we girls to live as best we could, with 
the sweet secret of that night buried deep in our 
hearts. I had only the little locket with Robert’s 
dear face and the few marriage-lines as proof of his 
love. 


LYDIA OP LEBANON 


125 


“Months passed without a word except what we 
could learn from the scanty newspaper report of 
their regiment. One day, a young lad of perhaps 
fifteen years, begrimed with sweat and dirt, rode 
up to the hospital, hastily dismounted, and, coming 
up the steps, asked the servant: ‘Is Miss Margaret 
Filmore here?’ He was brought immediately to 
me. Touching his old straw hat, he handed me a 
letter. How my heart bounded! . It was from 
Robert, and read : 

“ ‘I am at Vicksburg, Va. Can you come to me?’ 

“I did not know what to do. My mother was at 
White Sulphur Springs with her maid and my aunt, 
and I was going to join them the next week for a 
few days’ vacation. I had remained to look after 
the repairs being made on our home. I hastily 
wrote a note, saying I would go at once, and gave 
it to the boy, who told me the hospital there was 
filled with soldiers who had been brought in badly 
wounded in the last battle. I was frightened. I 
then sought Doctor Wilsey and asked for a few 
days’ absence, rushed home, and, calling the old 
colored housekeeper, said: ‘Chloe, I am called out 
of town for a couple of days. Can you stay here 
and look after everything? You may bring your 
mother to stay with you.’ She replied: ‘Yas’m, 
Miss Margaret, I can stay, deed I can, honey.’ I 
told her to pack my bag with the necessary articles 
for a two days’ trip and not to leave the house an 
hour until my return. 

“At three o’clock, I was on my way, and in due 
time was with my precious husband, for whom I 
had given up so much. He had by this time been 
given some new title of which I, of course, knew 


126 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


nothing until I was introduced by some of his 
friends as Colonel Wilbur’s wife. For three days, we 
basked in the sunshine of happiness of our love ; 
then his regiment marched away, and I returned to 
Washington. O, the bliss of perfect love; the happi- 
ness of being Robert’s wife! 

“Months passed with only occasional news of 
my husband. His regiment was sent from one 
point to another; heavy fighting was going on every- 
where. The limited press news was all I had. At 
last, came the news of ‘The battle of the Wilderness,’ 
in May, 1864, and the disastrous result. Among 
the names was that of Col. Robert Wilbur.” 

Here, Aunt Rhue’s hand went to her eyes as she 
said: “Pore lamb! God love her.” 

“God knows the shock was terrible, both of my 
own condition and the uncertainty of my husband’s. 
I went at once to dear old Doctor Wilsey and told 
him the truth from the beginning. He shook his 
head and said: ‘Poor child; poor child! You must 
tell your mother.’ 

“At last, I summoned up courage to tell Mother. 
Her anger was terrible to witness. She told me to 
leave the house; that I was no child of hers. I 
tried to explain, but she would not listen; she said 
I had disgraced her, and many other things too ter- 
rible to write. I did not know what to do. My heart 
was breaking. I was an only child. My father 
died when I was very young. I had an annuity 
from Grandmother Filmore’s estate and a small 
fortvme when I should reach my twenty-fifth year. 
I went sadly up-stairs, anxiously waiting for the 
evening paper. Chloe brought it and lighted the 
candle. After she left, I locked the door and trem- 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


127 


blingly perused the paper. I quickly turned to 
the column of dead and wounded. Almost the first 
name among the dead was Col. Robert Wilbur.” 

“My God!” groaned Unc^e Nat. 

“Pore child!” and Aunt Rhue wept. 

“How can I write the experience of that terrible 
night! Alone in the world, husband dead, alienated 
from a mother’s love and home, and the fiutter of 
the little soul beneath my heart told of the trying 
experience I had to face. I arose, stunned and heart- 
broken, went to my table, reached for my portfolio 
and wrote a note to my mother, telling her the name 
of the minister who married us, with street and num- 
ber, hurriedly packed a traveling-bag, gathered to- 
gether all the available cash I had. Then, I sat 
down, opened the little gold locket, and gazed at 
all that was left in the world for me to love. Oh, 
my God! the agony of that moment. 

“I knew no more until nearly morning. When I 
came to myself, the candle had burned to its socket. 
The grim, gray dawn was beginning to show through 
a drizzling rain. I hastily arose, put on the hat, 
veil, and waterproof I had worn the night I was 
married. I reread and put carefully in my purse 
my marriage-certificate. Then, with a prayer for 
guidance, quietly stole from my mother’s house, 
quivering with dismay, and left my home forever, 
the home of my childhood. With trembling feet, 
I directed my steps to the railway station, purchased 
a ticket, then waited for the train that would carry 
me to Richmond and to my husband’s dead body. 
No trace did I leave of my destination. 

“It was a long, tiresome journey with only my 
sad thoughts for company. It seemed we barely 


128 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


crept along. It was a slow accommodation-train at 
best and stopped, it seemed, at every crossroad. 
My temples were throbbing violently; the rain 
dashed against the windows. The car was filled 
with men, women, and children of the common 
class, but it mattered not to me; I was on my way 
to Robert. 

“If I could only reach Richmond before they sent 
his body home; then I could go with it. I felt that 
Robert’s father and mother, after they had seen the 
marriage-lines and the little gold locket with their 
boy’s face, would let me stay with them, at least, 
until I was able to work.’’ 

“The pore dear!’’ groaned Uncle Nat and Aunt 
Rhue. 

“All at once, there was a shock. The train came 
to a standstill. A crash, then the shrieks of injured 
people. Then all was still and dark. The next I 
knew, I was in bed with a sweet-faced, motherly- 
looking woman bending over me. ‘Where am I?’ 
I asked. She put her finger to her lips and said, 
‘Thank God!’ Then, passing through a door, 
quickly returned with a cup and, putting it to my 
lips, bade me drink, saying: ‘This will make you 
better. Now you must rest.’ I soon dozed off 
again. 

“Presently, the sound of subdued voices reached 
me. One said: ‘Mrs. Brown, she will live I think. 
Keep her quiet, but answer all questions as soon as 
you think she can bear it. It will relieve her mind 
to know even the worst at once.’ I must have 
dozed off again, for, when I opened my eyes, it was 
twilight and a dim shadow sat near the window, 
that arose at hearing my moan and came quickly to 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


129 


my bedside. I raised or tried to and said: ‘Will 
you please tell me where I am?’ 

“ ‘You are with friends,’ she replied, ‘about two 
miles from Richmond, at an humble farmhouse of 
which I am mistress. You have been here over 
two weeks. The train you were on was wrecked 
but a short distance from here, scarce half a mile, 
and you, with a number of others, were brought 
here. The rest have all gone.’ 

“ ‘Two weeks!’ I moaned, ‘and my husband, they 
have taken him home, and he is buried long ere 
this.’ 

“What should I do. In attempting to move, I 
found one ankle was stiff. I was unable to move 
it, and she informed me it was broken but was 
doing nicely and that I would soon be aroimd 
again, and that I had had brain-fever and had 
been very sick. 

“The next day, she informed me that she was all 
alone on the little farm, with the exception of two 
old slaves, an old negro and his wife. I grew better 
day by day, and, when the time came that my 
ankle was healed, I felt I must leave and so told 
my hostess. She asked: ‘Where is your home?’ 
Then, I broke down and told her I had none. I 
gave her a true statement of my case. She arose 
from her chair and came quickly to my side, and 
said: ‘I am a Southern woman and you a Union 
soldier’s widow. I know not how soon I may be 
bereft of my husband. You shall stay here and 
share my htunble fare until your trouble is over and 
you are able to travel.’ 

“I stayed on until my precious baby came, but 
God alone knows what I suffered in mind as well 


130 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


as body. Alone in the world, no one to protect 
me, but there was my baby — Robert’s and my 
precious baby that I nearly gave my life for. My 
constant prayer was: ‘Dear God, help me reach 
Robert’s home.’ 

“One bright morning, I brought down my purse 
and emptying its contents in Mrs. Brown’s lap, 
said: ‘There is all I have that is available. Take 
it all except just enough to buy me a ticket to Bol- 
ton, Vermont, and my expenses to Alden Center 
by stage.’ Robert had given me the directions to 
reach his home, never thinking from what grave 
necessity I would try to reach you. ‘In another 
year, I shall have come into an inheritance that 
will permit me to repay you for all your kindness 
to me.’ With tears streaming down her cheeks, 
she said: ‘Not one cent will I take. You will need 
every penny.’ The next day, Rastus hitched an 
old mule to a cart and took me and my baby to 
Richmond, but before I left, I wrote a note, and 
with it, left fifty dollars. 

“From Richmond, I came on to Bolton; to- 
morrow, I will take stage for Alderson, change and 
then go on to Lebanon, near Alden Center. 

“It has taken a long time to write this, and I am 
oh! so tired, but I dared put it off no longer. I 
had the doctor last night, and he forbade my going 
on any farther, but I must try for my baby’s sake 
and, in case anything happened, I wanted you to 
know the truth. If I die, take good care of Mar- 
garet Lydia. When I am dead, you will know the 
whole truth, the truth my lips will refuse to tell, 
and forgive us both. We meant no harm. The 
precious locket and the few bits of jewelry that I 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


131 


bought with^ my own money (I refused to bring 
the rest) I give to Lydia. If I live, I will destroy 
this and give them to her myself, If I die, when 
she is old enough, give them to her, and take legal 
steps to secure my inheritance for her. It is all 
invested in good securities. I enclose the necessary 
papers with this. 

“When you have read this, send it to my mother 
— the mother who wronged me so terribly; but I 
forgive her as I hope God will, for driving her only 
child out into the world to suffer. If I die and 
Lydia lives, always watch over her carefully. I 
appoint you her guardian. If she loves the country, 
keep her. She will have enough of her own to edu- 
cate and start her in life. 

“I leave Bolton to-morrow to try to find Robert’s 
father and mother, the parents he loved so well, 
and the ones I shall love for his sake. God grant 
I may reach them safely and with my own hands, 
place my precious babe in their arms, the arms that 
held Robert.” 

As Uncle Nat finished, he slowly folded and re- 
turned the letter to its envelope, wiped his eyes 
and face with his bandana, then laid his hand on 
Aunt Rhue’s shoulders. 

“Wall, Mother, what do ye think uv thet?” 

“Father, I think so much thet I don’t know really 
whar ter commence ter talk erbout it. But first, 
I think Lyddy’s mother was er good woman, an’ 
it nigh kills me ter think she hed ter suffer so much 
through our boy an’, God helpin’ me, her child shall 
be treated right. Pore girl! Ez fer her mother, wall, 
I won’t say jest what I think, fer I believe God will 
take care uv her punishment all right.” 


132 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


“Yes, I guess her soul hez been tortured some, 
hankerin’ arter ther wharabouts uv her only child. 
The Lord knows erbout when ter ’ply ther punish- 
ment better’n we do. Bit it haint’ so bad fer us. 
Mother, ez I feared. Now, what shall we tell 
Lyddy?” 

“Wall, Father, I’ve be’n thinkin’ what’s ther use 
ter harrer up her leetle soul with all this sufferin’ 
uv her pore mother. It’ll do her no good.” 

“I move,” said Uncle Nat, “we send this letter 
right whar it belongs. It’ll do its work better’n 
we cud. It orter pierce thet ’ere woman’s soul like 
er barbed arrer. Then you kin sit down, cornin’ 
Sunday, an’ tell Lyddy erbout her father an’ mother 
an’ grandma somewhere. Show her her leetle baby 
clothes an’ give her her mother’s marriage-lines an’ 
all ther things thet she wanted her ter hev.” 

“But, Father, don’t ye think Lyddy ’s ruther 
young ter hev sich valuable things?” 

“No, Mother, I don’t. Lyddy ’s thet sensible-like, 
she’d cherish ’em an’ take tamal good care uv ’um. 
I say give ’em ter ther child an’ done with it, an’, 
the next time I go Bolton way. I’ll git er nice leetle 
trunk with lock an’ key fer her ter keep her treas- 
ures in. I say give her ev’ry dum thing thet belongs 
ter her. She’s a prime child an’ no mistake, an’ 
shall be cheated no longer erbout her parents; but 
I say. Mother, I wouldn’t tell her erbout her new 
grandma’s cussed actions towards her mother.” 

“Why, Nathaniel Wilbur, stop yer swearin’. 
Thet’ll do no good.” 

“Wall, Mother, good er not, it’ll help relieve my 
feelin’s some, I reckon. Now, I’m goin’ ter ther 
barn ter look arter ther stock.” 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


133 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

Friday, January 3d, 1873, was a cold, crisp 
morning on Lebanon. The children had gone to 
school and Aunt Rhue had just finished frying a 
batch of doughnuts and was sifting some newly 
shaved maple sugar over them, “to give 'urn a 
flavor,” she said. 

Uncle Nat was washing his hands at the dry sink, 
having just come in from the bam. “I guess I’d 
better write thet tamal letter this momin’, though 
I hate ter like pizen,” he said, as he dried his hands. 

“Yes, Father, I think you’d better, but do yer 
know I’ve been thinkin’ uv ther name of Lyddy’s 
new grandmother, an’ I declar’ to goodness ef it 
hain’t ther same ez ther leetle Quaker woman thet 
wuz here last fall. But she lives in Philadelphia.” 

“Never mind. Mother, we’ll solve ther mystery 
afore long ef pen an’ ink’ll do it.” 

Uncle Nat drew his chair a little nearer the old 
secretary, gave his collar a hitch upward, and ran 
his bony fingers repeatedly through his grizzled 
hair and beard, then lifted a goose-quill and dipped 
it in the ink-hom. 

“By hookey,” he murmured to himself, “ef this 
hain’t ther hardest job I ever tackled except ther 

letter I read day before yisterday. By gad ” 

and he looked aroimd to see if Aunt Rhue heard 
him — “I’ve er good notion not ter write this ’ere 
letter. I know what it’ll mean ter us. It jest 
means thet we’ll lose Lyddy by ther proceedin’. I 
jest wish whoever her other grandmother is, thet 
she’s passed over ther great divide long ergo. See 
here, Nat Wilbur,” he went on, “there’s the finger 


134 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


on ther wall; don’t flunk an’ show ther white feather. 
Jest call ter mem’ry ther promise ye made thet 
dyin’ gal, an’ go on with thet writin’, let it be fer 
er ergin yer.” 

For a long time, the scratch of his pen was audible; 
then, laying it aside, he drew forth his bandana, 
mopped his damp forehead, dried his spectacles. 
Calling to Aunt Rhue, who was busy in the kitchen, 
to come in, he picked up the sheet of paper and, as 
she came into the room, said : 

“Set down. Mother. Ther thing’s writ an’ I 
want ye should hear its contents before I send it 
ter Washington.’’ 

“Lebanon, Vermont, Jan. 23, 1873. 
“Dear Madam: 

“I am enclosing a letter, put in hand ten year 
and over ago, by your dying daughter. The child 
is well and happy here on Lebanon with its own 
grandparents. I would suggest that she be left here 
for another year or two. She is a leetle mite and 
I don’t know what it might mean to transplant 
her, even for a visit to city life. You can come 
and see her this spring if you like, but I don’t want 
her disturbed this winter. She’s going to school 
regular and is well and happy. If anything should 
happen to necessitate your presence. I’ll surely let 
you know at once. 

“Respectfully yours, 

“Nathaniel Wilbur.” 

Aunt Rhue wiped her glasses and said: “Now, 
see here. Father, don’t yer think yer letter is er 
leetle bit stiff — kinder sharplike? Ye must re- 
member this ’ere woman, whoever she is, is Lyddy’s 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


135 


own grandmother an’ fer all we know, is jest hun- 
gerin' fer her own. Better add er P. S. an' tell 
her ter write at once ef she gits ther letter an’ let 
us know what is her pleasure. Course, she can’t 
take her less we say, specially ef Lyddy wants ter 
stay. Wise leetle mother, Robert’s wife wuz. But, 
Father, what air we goin’ ter do when ther time 
comes ter part with Lyddy?” 

“Tut, tut. Mother. Lyddy hain’t gone yit an’ ef 
ther time ever comes she does, ye will alius hev ther 
consolation uv knowin’ ye hev hed ther privilege uv 
steerin’ her craft fer ten year an’ more, an’ I 
cal’late ther foundation uv her future is purty well 
shaped; so don’t worry ner cross any bridges till 
ye come to ’um. I’ll jest seal this letter an’ pass 
it ter Si ez he goes by in ther momin’. Ye see, 
Mother, what right hev we to hold ourselves up ez 
ideals uv er high standard uv life, ef we don’t practise 
what we preach? Here we air, fussin’ over Lyddy’s 
future an’ our partin’ an’ sich. We’ve no right ter 
try ter scale thet wall. Ye know we’ve took this 
purty hard, but we’ll take er fresh start an’ live fer 
somethin’ thet’ll satisfy in ther end — somethin’ 
thet ’ll satisfy our souls ez well ez our hearts, thet’ll 
turn our failures an’ misgivin’s an’ doubts inter good. 
In ther future, we’ll jest trust. Mother, jest trust. 
We want ter stand fer true livin’ ev’ry time an’ 
Lyddy’ll come out all right, ef we do our part. I, 
fer one, feel downright streaked fer showin’ ther 
white feather.” 

“Uv course, we’ll stand fer true livin’ every time. 
Father, uv course, we will. I’ll hurry now with 
ther dinner. Jake’ll be here ’fore it’s ready.” 

Uncle Nat laid his hands on either side of Aunt 


136 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


Rhue’s head and smoothed her hair down each side, 
saying: “Queen Victory ain’t in it with you, Mother, 
an’ I count her ’bout ther best woman in ther 
world.’’ 

“Now, go long, Father’’; but a rosy hue over- 
spread her pleased face. As he went out, she said 
to Tabby, “Ther best man in ther world.’’ 

The next day, the letter was forwarded to the 
address given in Washington, and Uncle Nat and 
Aunt Rhue felt a great load lifted from their hearts. 
They felt years yoimger, and Aunt Rhue even 
hummed a tune of an old h3min as she stepped about 
her work. 

Sunday was blustering and cold on Lebanon. No 
Sunday-school or church that day. After dinner 
was cleared away. Aunt Rhue brought out a bake- 
kettle and iron cover; then, drawing some hot coals 
from the fire-place, she placed the kettle on them. 

“What are you going to do. Grandma?’’ 

“Wall, Lyddy, I thought maybe you’d like er 
leetle popcorn; Philip shelled it fer me last night.’’ 
As she spoke, she stooped and put in the com and 
replaced the cover. Almost before she moved from 
the hearth, it began to crackle and sputter against 
the cover, and when Aunt Rhue drew the kettle 
from the hot coals and raised the cover, there was 
a bed of fluffy whiteness. 

“Better melt some maple, Lyddy, an’ we’ll hev 
some corn-balls.’’ 

“Thank you. Grandma. How kind you are to 
bother for me. You need every minute’s rest you 
can get.’’ 

WTien Uncle Nat and Philip went to the bam to 
do the chores. Aunt Rhue drew her rocker near the 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


137 


fire, placed Lyddy’s little stool by her side, and, 
when she had sat down, put her arm lovingly 
around her little grandchild and told her all. Told 
her of her father’s boyhood; then of the gentle, lov- 
ing mother, eliminating every unkind act of her 
Grandmother Filmore. Told her about her mother’s 
coming, in a gentle, soothing way, smoothing out all 
rough places, but said not a word of the future. 
Told her how she would find on her little bed some 
remembrances of her mother’s. 

As she finished, Lydia arose and said, as she 
threw her little thin arms around her grandmother’s 
neck: “Grandma, you are the dearest and best in 
all the world, and I love you with all my heart. 
You will always come first.’’ Then, she straight- 
ened up and said, with a sad, wee smile: “Now 
Grandma, we can talk sometimes about my parents, 
can’t we?’’ 

“Yes, Lyddy, ye may,’’ as she kissed her. “Ye 
air a good child. Don’t fergit ter read yer Bible. 
‘Make of Christ not only a redeemer but a friend,’ 
an’ remember, Lyddy, ter stand firm where God’s 
providence hez set yer feet an’ ye’ll be secure. 
Make His righteousness yer shield. Labor fer God 
is ther best cure fer sorrow an’ disappointment, 
but I sure hope ye’ll hev neither fer years to 
come.’’ 

In due time, the letter reached Mrs. Filmore, 
having been forwarded from Washington. After 
reading her other mail, she slowly studied the post- 
mark, Alderson, and as slowly opened and drew 
forth Uncle Nat’s letter. She had felt some pre- 
monition, having remembered Aunt Rhue’s story 
and felt no surprise. Slowly, she read the letter, 


138 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


studying every word without the twitching of a 
muscle. Having finished, she folded her hands and 
said: 

“Well, it has turned out just as I expected, and 
I am glad it is no worse. They are worthy people 
and mean well, but my grandchild must be reared 
according to the station she will occupy in future 
life. With the proper training and education, she 
will eventually develop into a beautiful young 
woman. I discovered great possibilities even when 
I was there. I am grateful for her modest, quiet, 
and dignified ways. Blood will tell. She has in- 
herited them from me, for which I am thankful. 
Those old people are not suitable companions for 
my granddaughter. I will go to them at once and 
relieve them of the great responsibility. Of course, 
I will compensate them for their trouble, but my 
grandchild must be reared in an entirely different 
atmosphere. I will write at once and tell them that, 
as soon as the weather will permit, I will come for 
her,” and, drawing her writing-material to her, she 
proceeded to answer Uncle Nat’s letter. 

In due time, Mrs. Filmore received an answer to 
the effect that she had better reread the previous 
letters sent her, that her grandparents on Lebanon 
had succeeded in raising her so far and, by God’s 
help, would continue to do so for a few years. 
Then, if Lydia wanted to go to Philadelphia, she 
could do so and that this plan was final; but that, 
should she desire at any time to visit Lydia, the 
home on Lebanon would always be open to her. 
Occasional letters passed between them. In the 
early summer, Mrs. Filmore went to Lebanon, and 
after much discussion, it was finally decided that 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


139 


Lydia should remain undisturbed until she was 
fourteen years old. 

Time had made rapid progress, and we find Mrs. 
Fihnore on Lebanon making plans for Lydia to go 
to Philadelphia the coming fall. After much dis- 
cussion, Aunt Rhue wound up by saying: 

“When it comes ter havin’ Lyddy leave, it erbout 
strikes me diunb; but, understand. I’d ruther see 
Lyddy happy than anything in ther world, an’ ez 
she is sot on education, I want her ter hev it. But 
you must never fergit she is blood uv my blood, an’ 
flesh uv my flesh. I can’t say ez I relish hevin’ her 
livin’ in er city an’ er copyin’ ther ways. It jest 
makes my blood boil ter see them fashion-pictures 
uv wimmin er wearin’ only ther lower half uv er 
waist, an’ arms all bare clean ter ther shoulder. 
Lots uv these doin’ they call pleasure, ma’am, is 
only breedin’ misery fer ther future. 

“I know Lyddy’s young an’ small all right, an’ 
I want ter see her take her rightful place in ther 
world, but it’s tough ter lose her. I’ve hed my day 
nigh erbout, but ther remainin’ years I’m willin’ ter 
bide by God’s direction; but it’s hard ter wear er 
smilin’ face when yer heart’s like ter break, an’ I 
want ter tell yer it’s been thet way many er time, 
when I’ve allowed myself ter tink uv thet child’s 
future, an’ I’ve wondered what she’d do when 
Father an’ I were done with this life. But ez hard 
ez it is fer me ter think uv partin’ with ther child, 
it’s a comfortin’ thing ter know thet ye air ther 
woman ter look arter Lyddy’s future.’’ 

“But, Sister Wilbur, thee is not going to lose 
Lydia. She will ever be thy grandchild as now and 
shall come to thee and thy good husband every sum- 


140 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


mer, and thee must come to Philadelphia and see 
thy grandchild’s home.” 

“Talk is cheap, ma’am; but ther thing thet’s 
puzzlin’ me is how Father is goin’ ter git erlong 
without Lyddy.” 

Slowly, Lydia crossed the back dooryard. Tabby, 
walking by her side, seemed to know there was 
something unusual in Lydia’s not noticing her, and 
would occasionally rub her arched back against 
Lydia’s ankles to attract her attention. 

The shepherd dog. Rover, arose and came toward 
her from the open bam-door, but Lydia went 
straight on in and found Philip busily mending a 
rabbit-trap. “Oh, Philip! I’ve come to say good- 
by.” He glanced up, startled, pushed back his cap, 
and said: 

“To say good-by?” 

Lydia, (topping her head, said: “Yes, Philip, 
goo(i-by.” 

“Are you clean gone out of your senses, Lydia? 
Do you really mean that you are going to 
leave Lebanon, and Aunt Rhue and IJncle 
Nat and Bess and the lambs and Rover and 
me?” 

“Yes,” she assured him slowly, “but Grandma 
will tell you all about it. Please do not ask me 
about it now.” 

“Are you going away soon?” 

“Yes, this fall I am going to Philadelphia to 
school. Are you sorry, Philip?” she asked, looking 
him full in the face. 

He only replied: “Must you really go, Lydia?” 

“Yes, but let us talk about something else. It 
seems as though I can not stand it. It is more 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


141 


than I can bear, but I am coming back next 
summer.” 

“I am sorry,” Philip said, but went on with his 
work. 

What the trial was to Uncle Nat and Aunt Rhue, 
no one knew. All through the cold, bleak winter 
that practically made shut-ins of them, they went 
along the daily routine as of old, with no news of 
the outside world except what Jake and Uncle Nat 
would bring in from the crossroads or from Alden 
Center where one or the other went each week to 
exchange the eggs and butter for the family supply 
of groceries. But the most momentous event and 
one that warmed their kind and loving old hearts 
was when Si Newman would bring the weekly letter 
from Lydia. They were long, well written, and to 
them quite marvelous. They were kept in touch 
with her home life, her school, her sight-seeing, and 
they could easily discern her great desire for more 
knowledge. 

Mrs. Filmore provided them with a Philadelphia 
weekly paper and a monthly magazine, which they 
enjoyed, but these did not fill the void in their ach- 
ing hearts. Philip was not forgotten. Lydia always 
tucked in a little letter for him, inquiring about her 
school-mates and the animals on the farm, and 
Philip always answered them, and according to 
promise, Lydia always spent each summer on the 
farm. 


142 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


CHAPTER XIX. 

Three years have now passed, and Lydia was 
making preparations to visit the farm for the last 
time before graduation. She had asked her grand- 
mother that she might be allowed to make the 
journey to Lebanon alone that year, but Mrs. Fil- 
more firmly refused. If there were no friends going 
Bolton way, she herself must go. Finally, some 
friends traveling that way promised to care for 
Lydia, and, at Bolton, see her on the train for 
Alderson, from which place she would go safely 
in Si Newman’s care by way of the Overland. But, 
after all her planning, her home-coming was some- 
thing of a disappointment. Uncle Nat, thinking 
to give her a genuine surprise, planned to meet her 
in Alderson himself, as he had business there, and 
then he and Lydia could have a good long visit on 
the ten-mile trip home. He dusted out the family 
carryall and placed two easy splint bottom chairs 
in place of the seat, that Lydia might ride all the 
more comfortably. 

As Lydia stepped from the cars and saw the carry- 
all, she grew hot with embarrassment, seeing her 
fellow passengers eyeing the equipage, and she 
almost wished her grandfather had not come. But, 
in a moment, a flash of shame crossed her counten- 
ance and rushing up to her grandfather, she threw 
her arms around his neck, and hugged and kissed 
him regardless of onlookers. 

The road, much of the way over which they 
jolted, was rutty, and old Bess stopped often to rest. 
There were may questions to ask about her grand- 
mother, also Philip, who had left the farm that 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


143 


spring and gone to Bolton to live. She wanted 
to know all about the lambs and other animals 
and even the bees came in for their share of interest. 

As they jogged along, she could not help but 
notice the ungainly fences and untidy, unkept 
houses. Nothing was trimmed and well-kept like 
she was used to seeing in Philadelphia, and even 
her own home, when they reached it, did not seem 
like her recollection of it. She was delighted to see 
her grandmother, whom she loved dearly, but she 
could not help but notice the difference between the 
lavender sprigged calico and the dainty soft wool 
and silk dresses her city grandmother wore, and her 
hair was combed tightly back from her temples, in- 
stead of falling lightly beside her face. Even the 
furniture looked commonplace and scant. Lydia 
felt ashamed that she could notice those things, 
but in reality they dampened her spirits, and then 
she missed Philip. 

She despised herself for seeing the coffee-pot was 
tin and the handles of the knives and forks bone, 
but above all that, they poured their tea and coffee 
into the saucers to cool before drinking it. 

Although her grandmother had provided a de- 
licious supper, it annoyed her to see it all put on 
the table at once. She knew it was ungrateful and 
wicked to let such trifles disturb her happiness the 
first evening at home. There was so much to talk 
of, so much to tell, so many questions to ask, and 
so many questions to answer; and, let it be said to 
her credit, her pillow was dampened that night 
and the more she reproved her self for her ingrati- 
tude and fickleness, the more plentiful the tears. 

Things were more desirable in the morning. Put- 


144 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


ing on a neat print dress and saying her prayers 
with a trembling voice, she tripped happily down 
the stairs as of yore and in a trice was busily help- 
ing with the breakfast. This over, she was out 
in the open, filling her lungs with the fresh sweet air. 

. “I must have been tired last night, tor I didn’t 
feel a bit like myself. How dear and beautiful 
everything looks. There is nothing like the coun- 
try after all.” 

The clover fields were aflush with nodding blooms. 
A thousand bees and insects of every kind sipped 
the sweet nectar as they busily hummed above 
them. The cornfields shook their glossy blades and 
tasseled tops in the face of the glowing sun. The 
near-by trees seemed alive with redbreasts and blue 
wings, and along the top rail of the old worm fence, 
the striped ground squirrels ran a race. Every- 
thing seemed bidding her welcome. 

She told her grandparents of her Grandmother 
Fihnore’s teaching of goodness and wisdom, of the 
new friends she had made, of her classes at school, 
and of the prizes on examination-day. 

“Just think. Grandma, when I was young and 
foolish, I used to think and dream of just such 
things as have come to pass; but I never have for- 
gotten that you and Grandpa gave me my first 
start, and I long to be a credit to you; and, when I 
am through school, I am coming back to dear old 
Lebanon and live forever.” 

“La, child, ther idee uv ye talkin’ erbout bein’ 
young an’ foolish. Why, ye air only turned seven- 
teen, an’ don’t know what life is; but I’m proper 
glad ye air not so citified but thet ye still love us 
on Lebanon.” 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


145 


At these tender words, the false pride of yesterday 
was recalled and brought a blush to her fair young 
face. 

“I am going to the north woods this afternoon, 
Grandma. I want once more to see those dear old 
hickory and maple trees lock arms, and look for 
the late wild violets in the hollow.” 

So the summer passed in happy enjoyment. 
Philip came for a short vacation, and they tramped 
over familiar ground, gathering the berries and 
helping hull them. The time passed all too quickly, 
and Lydia was back in Philadelphia, busy with her 
last year's study. 


CHAPTER XX. 

^‘Hello, Aimt Rhue,” called a cherry voice, “where 
are you? I hayen’t but a minute to spare; so show 
up before I make myself scarce.” 

“Why, Philip Strong, I didn’t know ye. Ye hev 
growed so big an’ likely. Where under canopy hev 
ye bin an’ where air ye goin’ in sech a hurry,” and 
Aunt Rhue pushed back her sunbonnet and sponged 
off her forehead with a comer of her apron. “I 
was cullin’ out ther dead leaves from this straw- 
berry-patch an’ gittin’ ready fer Father to rake 
over ther lettuce an’ onion-beds. Time seed wuz 
in days ergo, but ther hard rains hev hindered all 
sich plantin’ an’ put back everything but ther grass 
an’ grain. Father said last night we’d never hed 
sech likely winter wheat an’ rye. Big crop ef nothin’ 


146 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


happens. But, Philip, loose yer boss’s bridle an’ 
come in an’ set erwhile.” 

“Thank you. Aunt Rhue, but I only stopped for 
a few minutes to see how you and Uncle Nat were 
and to inquire about Lydia.’’ 

“Well, Philip, I’m proper glad ye did. Father’s 
well. He an’ Jake air over in the west timber-lot. 
I s’pose ye know he is sot on buildin’ er new house. 
Ez fer Lyddy, she is well. I s’pose ye know she will 
be graduatin’ this spring!’’ 

“No, I have not heard so, but I suspected as 
much. Lydia is a very intellectual and bright girl. 
Aunt Rhue. Do you think she will be on Lebanon 
this summer?’’ 

“Wall, Philip, she says she will, but I don’t 
know. Her grandma’s got ther travelin’ craze, 
wunderlust, Lyddy calls it, an’ wants ter take her 
abroad, but Lyddy says no. She air cornin’ home 
ter rest, thet there’s time emough ter travel 
later.’’ 

“I hope she will,’’ said Philip. “Give her my 
love and tell her my colt, Trixy, is well broken to 
the saddle and I will bring her over when Lydia 
comes home, so she can ride when she pleases. 
Good-by, Aunt Rhue.’’ 

“No, ye don’t say no good-by, Philip Strong, till 
ye hev sampled my fresh gingerbread with er glass 
uv Jersey milk; then ye can go an’ good luck ter ye, 
fer ye wuz alius er good boy. Ye’d better stay ter 
dinner.” 

“Thank you. Aunt Rhue, but that lunch was 
delicious,” said Philip, as he drained the glass. 
“Now, I’m off,” and, giving her a bear hug as of 
old, was gone. 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


147 


“Likely boy,” said Aunt Rhue, as he mounted 
his horse and cantered off. 


CHAPTER XXL 

“Why, Grandmother, you have left only three 
invitations for me to send to the home people. 
How is that?” 

“Why, Lydia, is that not enough? Thy friends 
to be invited are limited, thee knows; so I thought 
three would be enough.” 

“Oh, Grandmother!” and the tears started, “to 
think of my sending only three invitations back to 
dear old Lebanon and Alden. I must have more. 
There is Grandma and Grandpa, one; Philip Strong, 
two; Uncle Si Newman, three; Mr. and Mrs. Leg- 
gett, four; the Postmaster, my Sunday-school 
teacher. Miss Adams, five; Rev. and Mrs. Peabody, 
six; Mrs. Lillian St. Alban, Boston, seven; Mr. 
Philip Anderson, in Denver, eight; and Sallie Wood- 
bridge, my dearest seatmate at school, nine.” 

“Lydia Wilbur, does thee think it necessary to 
remember all those country people,” said the soft, 
but firm voice of Mrs. Filmore. “There is not one 
who in all probability will come.” 

“Grandmother, what makes you think so. Of 
course, my friends will come. I would not feel 
right to graduate and have none of my old friends 
here. I feel sure Philip would come with Grandpa 
and Grandma, and it would be just like Uncle Si 
Newman to come, too. He always does the things 


148 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


one least expects him to and I would dearly love 
to have Sallie Woodbridge.” 

“Lydia, has thee ever stopped to think what a 
menagerie those country people would be to thy 
city friends? Of course, I want thy grandparents 
to come, but Lydia what would thee do with thy 
old mountain stage-driver?” 

Slowly, a flush mounted to Lydia’s brow as she 
replied: “Do with him! Do with Uncle Si Newman! 
Why, Grandmother, the kindest heart that ever 
beat is wrapped in his homely body. Do with 
him! Why, I would try my best to make him 
happy with the rest of my friends. He is a good 
man and I love him and want him here when I 
graduate. It would make him very happy, I 
know.” 

“Lydia, thee must not think of such a thing as 
to mar thy graduation with those uncouth visitors.” 

“Very well. Grandmother,” and her voice quiv- 
ered, “but, remember, there will be one graduate 
missing the twenty-second of June, if my friends 
do not come. I have never deviated a hair’s breadth 
from your wishes since I have been here, but I 
draw the line on eliminating from this list some of 
the. best people God ever made, simply because 
they are nature’s true noble men and women and 
all because their diction is imperfect and they wear 
homespun clothes; and for this, you want me to 
drop them. Never, Grandmother, never! Those 
people have been my friends from babyhood and I 
can not slight them. I beg of you, do not ask me 
to do so.” 

“Lydia, I can not allow it. Thee must not take 
any chances of sending and having them accept 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


149 


your invitations. I have other plans for thee, and 
thee must abide by my decision.” 

“Grandmother, again I say, my friends must be 
invited or I will not graduate. I would not hurt 
their feelings or change my love for them for the 
whole of Philadelphia. We may as well settle it 
now. I will not graduate;” so saying, she quietly 
left the room. 

Slowly, she went up-stairs and, entering her room, 
looked around at the plain but elegant furnishings, 
with every evidence of luxury. Crossing the room, 
she dropped on her knees by a window and, leaning 
her elbows on the ledge, buried her head in her 
arms, sobbing: 

“Dear old Lebanon, why did I ever leave it to 
learn the ways of the cold and polished world? 
How I would love to run down to the crystal spring 
this moment and cool this throbbing with a draft 
of its precious drops. Oh, Grandma, oh. Grandpa! 
‘True hearts are more than coronets and simple 
faith than Norman blood.’ Why did you send me 
away from you, or rather allow me to come 
away from your love and peace and happiness. 
Oh, Mother, at last I know why you suffered 
and sacrificed and finally died on Lebanon. 
Dear old Lebanon, and fourteen years of solid 
happiness.” 

The sound of the dinner-gong resounding through 
the house aroused her. She arose and, clearing 
away all trace of emotion, descended and entered 
the dining-room where her ^andmother awaited 
her. After the butler had quietly served them and 
left the room, Mrs. Filmore said: 

“Lydia, I have changed my mind and have 


150 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


ordered a half dozen more invitations. With what 
thee now has, it will total nine. Send them to 
whom thee will, but, remember, we can entertain 
only thy grandparents here.” 

“Thank you. Grandmother,” Lydia replied, with- 
out raising her eyes. 

After school that afternoon, on her way home, 
Lydia switched off Chestnut Street and rapidly 
walked down a side street until she came to an 
old-fashioned but very genteel-looking house, set 
well back from the street, and surrounded by large 
trees, a neatly kept yard filled with shrubs and 
old-fashioned flowers added to its attractiveness. 
In the window was a sign, “Rooms to let.” Lydia 
opened the gate and walked up the clean brick 
walk to the wide veranda. Here, she ascended the 
steps and raised the old brass knocker and waited 
breathlessly for an answer. This was her first 
business venture. 

Soon, the door was opened by an elderly Quaker- 
ess, who bade her come in. “Thank you, but I 
will state my errand first. Have you rooms to let, 
and do you ever furnish food for those who take 
your rooms?” 

“Sometimes, dear. Thee must come in and I will 
show thee my vacant rooms.” 

“Please, madam, allow me to explain,” said 
Lydia, as she sat down in the cool and pleasant 
parlor. “I expect to graduate from the Young 
Ladies’^ Seminary in two weeks. I have some very 
dear friends that I expect are coming from far off 
Vermont, and I would like at least tfiree rooms for 
three days only — one for my grandparents, one 
for Uncle Si and Philip, they can room together 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


151 


and one for emergency, and I will pay for it whether 
it is used or not.” 

“Well, dear, I think I can accommodate thee and 
thy friends for that short time with room and board.” 

“I thank you for your kindness. It makes me 
very happy and I know you will love my grand- 
mother. She is the dearest grandmother a girl 
ever had.” 


CHAPTER XXII. 

“Dear Grandpa and Grandma: 

“I am so happy at the thought of seeing you very 
soon. I have your room all ready and will meet 
you at the station. Tell Philip, or you do it, to 
telegraph when you leave Bolton. Be sure to come 
the twenty-first so as to get rested and shop a little. 
I can hardly wait to see your dear faces, my precious 
ones. Tell Uncle Si to be sure to come. I have 
written Philip. I hope to be able to return home 
with you. Much love. 

“Lydia.” 

“Wall, Mother, what do ye think uv thet?” and 
Uncle Nat pushed his spectacles up on his forehead 
and brushed the moisture from his eyes as he folded 
the letter and held it caressingly in his hand. 
“Lyddy seems ter take it fer granted we air goin' 
to Philadelphy; but how in all creation we can 
manage it, I can’t see.” 

“Now, see here, Father, ther first thing to settle 


152 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


is: Do ye want ter go? Ef ye do, ther rest is easy 
emuf. Lyddy is our girl. We saw her father gradu- 
ate an’ receive his diploma an’ it pleased him. An’ 
now it’s up to you. Ef ye want ter go, thet settles 
it; I’m with ye. Er trip ter Bolton, er call at ther 
bank, er few purchases, an’ we air ready. Miss 
Snow will go with us an’ help me shop an’ we kin 
call on Philip ter help out, an’ thar it is.” 

“Wall, Mother, I’ll go do ther chores an’ we’ll 
settle ther question arter supper. By hookey, I hardly 
know how ter leave so much baby stock on hand.” 

“Do go erlong. Father. There’ll be plenty uv 
baby stock ter look arter when we can’t go ter 
Philadelphy, an’ Lyddy won’t graduate ev’ry spring.” 

The next morning, bright and early. Uncle Nat 
and Aunt Rhue started for Bolton. It was a whole 
day’s trip to Bolton and return, and they must 
stop at Alderson for Miss Snow, the dressmaker, 
and go by train to Bolton. When they left the train 
at Bolton, they went at once to the Vermont National 
Bank. Soon, Uncle Nat came out and handed 
Aunt Rhue a roll of bills, saying: “Sail in. Mother, 
an’ don’t stint yerself. I’m goin’ fer Philip.” 

Miss Snow piloted Aunt Rhue to a large and 
fashionable dry goods establishment, where they 
deliberately proceeded to shop. They first selected 
material for a traveling-dress, a lovely shade of 
rich dark brown merino, with velvet of a harmonizing 
color to trim. A pair of brown kid gloves came 
next. Then, a handsome silver-gray silk of superior 
texture was chosen with proper trimmings. A real 
lace collar and cuffs and pair of delicate light gray 
kid gloves completed this purchase. 

The next article asked for was a wrap. The clerk, 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


153 


being delighted with so good a customer, took pains 
to show everything to the best advantage. Finally, 
they settled on an elegant, heavy, black silk man- 
tilla for traveling use and a silvery, white crepe, 
hand-embroidered shawl for the graduating. After 
a visit to the show and millinery departments, they 
went to meet Uncle Nat and Philip, who took them 
to a late but substantial dinner. Uncle Nat was 
loaded with various parcels, but never a word of 
their contents. After dinner, as they left the hotel. 
Uncle Nat said: “How erbout a present fer Lyddy?” 

After much consultation, they settled on an all 
round satisfactory gift, and after securing that and 
a few other purchases, made ready for the return 
trip home. 

As the time drew near for the journey to Phila- 
delphia, Aunt Rhue nightly scrubbed and polished 
her hands and face with soda and buttermilk, al- 
ternating with an application of Indian meal, and 
Miss Snow washed and brushed her abundant and 
beautiful gray hair until it seemed almost twice its 
usual amount. 

Uncle Nat hunted up his grammar and dictionary, 
and together he and Aunt Rhue went over it and 
were cautious to drop every mountain phrase pos- 
sible, correcting each other, making much pleas- 
antry, and they soon fell back into their youthful 
manner of speech. It was hard at first, but they 
persevered. Aunt Rhue said, “Nothin’ wan’t too 
much ter do fer ther leetle gal,” and they would 
try and not cause her to blush for them. 

As the train pulled in to Philadelphia on the 
afternoon of June twenty-first, and the passengers 


154 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


began to alight, a trio stepped to the platform and 
almost immediately a pair of young arms was 
thrown about Aunt Rhue’s neck and a sweet voice 
said : 

“Oh, the loveliest of grandmothers! How happy 
I am, and Grandfather, too,” and as she kissed him, 
she could not restrain the tears. “Dear Uncle Si, too! 
How glad I am to see you. But where is Philip?” 

“Philip cuddent come with us, Lyddy,” said Si, 
“but he’ll be on hand termorrow.” 

Lydia quickly led them to a fine carriage with 
prancing horses and driver and footman in livery. 
The colored footman opened the door and, as they 
entered, Lydia gave the direction where to go. 
Shortly, the driver stopped before Mrs. Mont- 
gomery’s home and soon the travelers were in their 
rooms. Lydia, on removing her grandmother’s 
dainty brown straw bonnet, neatly trimmed with 
velvet of the same shade, exclaimed: 

“Oh, Grandmother! You are just lovely. What 
have you and Grandpa done to yourselves. Oh! 
I am so happy. I brought you all to this quiet 
place to rest and spend the night. To-morrow, you 
are coming to Grandmother Filmore’s. I know she 
is expecting you to-night, but I just wanted you 
to my own self the first night. I am going home 
now, but will return for you and help you get ready 
for the concert to-night. I am so sorry Philip is 
not here.” 

As Lydia entered her home, her grandmother met 
her with an anxious face. “Why, Lydia, where are 
thy grandparents? I was sure they would miss the 
train. How unfortunate, now it will spoil our en- 
tire evening to have to meet a later train.” 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


155 


‘|0, no, Grandmother. They did not miss the 
train. They came all right, and Uncle Si Newman 
came with them.” 

“What does thee mean, Lydia?” 

“That I have just left them safely at Mrs. Horace 
Montgomery’s, in Locust Street. They are resting 
there and, after the coachman has taken you to 
Music Hall this evening, I would like, with your per- 
mission, to have him take us to the concert.” 

“Why, Lydia!” 

“Pardon me, but I am very tired and will go at 
once to my room.” 

“Whoever would have thought that quiet, docile 
child would do such a thing! I am greatly surprised 
and chagrined. What will her grandparents think, 
and they so kind to me always. Lydia, why did 
thee humiliate me so. I see I must take thee in 
hand more firmly, my child, I can see that plainly; 
but I will wait until later.” 

When Lydia and her party reached Music Hall, 
Lydia motioned to an usher and said: “Charles, 
please take my friends to the seats reserved for 
them next to Mrs. Filmore in row six, center aisle.” 
Then, turning to them, said: “I must leave you in 
Mrs. Filmore’s care. I have a little surprise for 
you, so please excuse me for a time, but I will see 
you later. Grandmother Filmore will entertain 
you,” and Lydia hurried away. 

If Mrs. Filmore felt any surprise at the daintily 
gowned woman to whom she extended a welcome, 
she never showed it, nor did she move a muscle 
when Uncle Nat shook her hand warmly. 

When seated, she had time for but a few common- 
place questions, when strains of distant music 


156 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


filled the hall. Low and sweet, it sounded. As it 
came nearer, the curtain slowly raised as if by 
magic and disclosed to view a train of beautiful 
young women, advancing two by two. At their 
head, walked Lydia alone. A vision of loveliness, 
she was simply clad in a pure white gown of finest 
sheer muslin. Her only ornament was a wreath of 
wild white anemone, entwined with the delicate green 
of the Vermont maiden-hair fern. Slowly, they took 
their places, and Lydia sat down to a magnificent 
harp a little to the left, but in front of her class. 

Si Newman nudged Uncle Nat and whispered: 
“Gosh all fish-hooks, Nat, ef thet gal don’t look 
jest like our Lyddy.” 

“Hush, Si, that is Lydia.” 

“Wall, wall, I wish ter thunder Phil Strong wuz 
here,” he murmured. “I alius thought she wuz 
han’some, but I’ll be gosh-damed all she lacks now 
is ther wings ter make her look like er real angel.” 

As Lydia lightly touched the strings, a melody of 
soft, sweet music fell on the audience. Si Newman 
gasped and whispered: “Is this ’ere place heaven 
or am I dreamin’?” Back in a corner, stood a 
young man, with folded arms in deep revery, who 
thought the same. With a sigh of pleasure, he ad- 
vanced and took a seat. At the close of the num- 
ber, there was tremendous applause and Lydia 
responded with an old-fashioned selection, “Annie 
Laurie,” that brought tears to more than one. It 
was so imexpected, but Lydia knew why she played 
it. It was for the dear home folk she played and 
she put every bit of melody possible into it. It 
seemed as though they must know it was for them. 
“But where was Philip?” 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


157 


At the close, numerous bouquets were thrown or 
carried to her by the ushers. Among them, was 
a large bunch of snowy lilacs. As she received this, 
she buried her face for a moment in its sweet, pun- 
gent fragrance and selecting a spray, tucked it in 
her belt, and bowing, sat down. 

In the rear, a young man murmured: “God bless 
her. They have not spoiled my mountain-queen.” 

The musical was a success as was also the banquet 
that followed it. The little country girl had ac- 
quitted herself creditably and admirably, and her 
friends were pleased — none more so than the 
Lebanonites. On their way home, as the carriage 
stopped in Locust Street, Lydia said to her Grand- 
mother Filmore : 

“I will run in just for a minute with Grandma.” 

As she was about to leave, she said: “Good night, 
dear ones,” and, after kissing her grandparents good 
night, she advanced to Si Newman and said: “Good 
night. Uncle Si. May I just kiss you once for the 
Overland’s sake? I am so happy.” 

Si’s face was a red as a turkey gobbler as he 
grabbed her and gave her a kiss. “Jerusalem arti- 
chokes, Lyddy, I leetle thought ther first ride I 
ever gin ye in ther Overland, nigh eighteen year 
ago, ye would ever come ter this, but yer all 
right.” 

“But it was too bad,” said Lydia, “that Philip 
was not here to-night. It was my only disappoint- 
ment. I did want him so much.” 

“Wall, Lydia, I think yer wuz purty well sup- 
ported by ther way ther young men hung eround 
yer temight,” Si teased. 

With a smile, Lydia replied: “They were not 


158 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


Philip though,” and, with a last good night, she 
hurriedly left them. 

If Mrs. Filmore was surprised at Uncle Nat and 
Aunt Rhue the evening before, she was completely 
diunbfounded at the dignified, gentle bearing of this 
couple as they entered her spacious parlors — 
Uncle Nat, resplendent in fine broadcloth and patent 
leathers, immaculate linen and clean-shaven, fol- 
lowed by Aunt Rhue, gowned in her dainty silver- 
gray silk and real lace, with bonnet and gloves to 
match, with the rich, soft folds of her creamy white 
crepe falling gracefully around her. Even Uncle 
Si, with his neat suit of gray and new calf-skin 
boots, polished until they shone, did not look out 
of place. Lydia had pleaded that he might be of 
the party. 

Uncle Nat was intelligently conversant on all 
the topics of the day. This pleased Mrs. Filmore 
very much. 

Lydia took her grandmother up to her room to 
remove her wraps and show her that part of the 
house. 

At dinner, Mrs. Filmore was again surprised and 
pleased to see the proper handling of fork and spoon, 
and came to the conclusion that they would do even 
in the city. 

The graduating-exercises were very interesting, 
with Lydia as valedictorian, and many of her young 
friends crowded around her as they left the build- 
ing. At this period, a young man, fashionably at- 
tired, stepped up to Lydia and extended his hand 
in congratulation. 

“Oh, Philip! When did you come? I am de- 
lighted to see you.” 


LYDIA OP LEBANON 159 

“I cam in last evening,” said Philip with a smile, 
“but thought it best not to disturb you.” 

“Come, Philip, and meet my friends,” she ex- 
claimed, drawing his arm through hers. “This is 
my foster brother, Philip Strong,” she said, as she 
introduced him to her many friends and admirers. 
Shortly after, he excused himself, saying business of 
importance necessitated that he return to Bolton 
by the next train. On saying good-by, Lydia told 
him she was going home the next day with her 
grandparents. This brought a smile to Philip’s 
face. “And you will be sure to come to see me 
soon?” 

“Yes, thank you. I surely will,” replied Philip. 

Late as it was that night when Lydia retired to 
her room, she partly packed her traveling-bag in 
happy anticipation of her trip; then again admired 
the many presents she had received. Nearly every 
one she Imew had remembered her. Her quiet, 
gentle, womanly ways had won many friends. 
There were flowers galore, silver toilet articles, 
books, vases, personal wearing apparel, a tiny gold 
watch and chain from her grandparents. A narrow 
band of finest gold set with one great lustrous 
pearl, with a card that bore the name of Si Newman, 
sent her into ecstacies of happiness. 

“Dear Uncle Si,” she murmured. 

One large package contained the latest books on 
harp music, with a note saying: “Be sure to take 
it with you, for you will need it on Lebanon.” The 
young women of the school and the faculty had 
purchased a fine harp that was already on its way 
to Lebanon. A small box that had come during the 
evening before she reached home, contained a por- 


160 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


trait of her mother, painted on ivory. The card 
with this bore a single word, “Philip.” 

From her Grandmother Filmore was a small ruby 
ring and a set of sterling silver teaspoons and 
cream ladle marked with her mother’s maiden name 
and a note saying that it had been her mother’s 
last birthday gift, but had never been removed from 
their wrappings. At this, Lydia broke down and 
sobbed. 

“Dear mother! Oh, if you were only here! Did 
you and Father look down on your child last night 
and to-day, and were you pleased?” 

The next morning, she was astir early and re- 
sumed her packing. Her grandmother, on hearing 
her, sent her maid requesting Lydia to come to 
her room. As she entered, Mrs Filmore looked up 
from a letter she was reading and said: 

“Good morning; sit down, Lydia.” When her 
grandmother finished reading the letter, she said: 
“Lydia, thee must postpone thy visit to Lebanon. 
Company is coming unexpectedly, and I need thee 
here.” 

“Oh, Grandmother! Is it necessary, for me to 
remain? Grandma and Grandpa will be so disap- 
pointed and so will 1. I am so tired and need the 
change, and I have looked forward to going with 
them so much. Please excuse me and let me go.” 

^ “Lydia, thee can not go. It is settled. We will 
discuss it no longer. My Grandnephew Anderson 
and his friend will be here to-morrow, and thee 
must be here to help entertain them. Thee must 
be sensible. Remember, thee is a young lady now 
and can not have thy way as of old. We will discuss 
this no longer. Ring for Phyllis that I may instruct 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


161 


her about the guest-rooms, and thee had better go 
to thy grandparents as soon as thee has thy break- 
fast and inform them thee can not go.” 

Tears rushed to Lydia’s eyes. Her great disap- 
pointment was visible. As she opened her lips to 
speak, her grandmother said: “No more of this 
babyishness. Assume thy womanhood.” 

Lydia left the room crushed, rebellion visible in 
every move. She put on her hat and left word 
with the maid to tell her grandmother she did not 
care for breakfast, and went silently out the door. 
Quickly, she walked to Mrs. Montgomery’s and 
entered her grandmother’s room, and with tears, 
exclaimed : 

“O, Grandma! What do you think? I can not go 
with you. What shall I do? My heart is breaking.” 

“Hush, Lydia,” said Aunt Rhue, as she slipped 
her arm around her. “Don’t cry, child, but tell 
us the reason.” 

“Oh! Some horrid relatives are coming, and 
grandmother wants me to stay and help entertain 
them, and I just can not. My trunk is packed and 
everything is ready for me to go.” 

Her grandfather said: “Never mind, Lydia, you 
do just as she wants you to this time. Smother 
your disappointment and say nothing; but when we 
get you on Lebanon again, it will be your ‘inning’ 
and you can stay just as long as you want to, and 
no one can dispute our right to keep you. Be sen- 
sible, now, and, as much as it means to us to leave 
you here, it may be all for the best.” He put a 
roll of bills in her hand and said: “If the time ever 
comes when you want to see us and old Lebanon, 
just slip away, and Si Newman or Philip will see 


162 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


you home. Now, dry your tears and be our own 
good little girl once more. Never fear, we will soon 
meet again. We will just say good-by here and 
you will not feel it as much as if you went to the 
station.” He folded her in his arms and, kissing 
her, said: “Lydia, never forget your father was a 
soldier and a brave man.” 

Her grandmother had kept silent, though Lydia’s 
grief and disappointment seemed almost too much 
to bear in silence; but she kissed her and said: 
“You will soon be home, Lyddy. Write to us often 
and remember there is always a welcome waiting 
our little girl on Lebanon.” 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

After a busy day, Philip was going over the even- 
ing mail and he came to an envelope postmarked 
Philadelphia. He hastily opened and drew forth 
the following : 

“Dear Philip : 

“I have just learned this morning where the 
lilacs came from. I was disappointed in not going 
home with Grandma, so could not wait to thank 
you in person. Uncle Si, with one of his sly winks, 
told me just as he was leaving that he guessed 
Philip Strong knew where some of my ‘posies come 
frum.’ But I have been imable to find out where 
the dear little white anemones came from. They 
came just as I was about to leave home for the con- 
cert, so I carried the box with me and hurriedly 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 163 

put them on after reaching the hall. Thank you 
again for the lilacs. They were lovely, Philip. 

“Oh, just a word more! It seemed to me when I 
put on the anemones that, if I closed my eyes, I 
was again in dear old silver-beech hollow. I pre- 
sume you have forgotten all about crystal spring 
and silver-beech hollow. 

^ “Write to me, Philip. It has been a long time 
since I have heard from you. 

“Your old friend, 

“Lydia.” 

In due time, a reply came to Lydia’s letter. 

“Bolton, Mass. 

“Dear Lydia: 

“Yours of the 25th at hand. Yes, Lydia, it was 
I that gave you the lilacs, and I gathered the ane- 
mones in silver-beech hollow, near crystal spring. 
I had not forgotten. That was the reason I did 
not go on the same train with your grandparents 
and Uncle Si. While they were speeding on to 
Philadelphia, I was picking anemones. I then went 
up to the house and took the liberty to cut some 
lilacs from Aunt Rhue’s prize bush. I hastened on 
horseback and caught the next train, and was in 
Philadelphia for the concert. The anemones were 
sent to your house by messenger after I had taken 
them to a florist and had them arranged in proper 
form for the occasion. The lilacs, I carried myself. 
I had made up my mind if you did not wear them 
or notice them, I would steal away unnoticed and 
take the night train for Bolton. But I And that 
more than four years of city life and associates 


164 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


have not changed your love for common country 
flowers and folk. 

“I am to enter Judge Palmer’s law-office in 
September and complete my course with him. I 
am busy on the record or docket-searching staff at 
present. 

“Always the same old friend, 

“Philip.” 

Two long and one short blast of Si Newman’s 
horn warned the folk at Sunnyslope (Lydia’s name 
for the Lebanon farm) that some one was coming. 
Uncle Nat dropped his hoe and hastened toward 
the house. Stopping at the milk-house door, where 
Aunt Rhue was working a mass of golden-hued but- 
ter, he called : 

“Say, Mother, did ye hear Si’s horn?” 

“Yes, Father, I did; but it’s only some uv them 
air tourists I suppose arter er drink uv fresh butter- 
milk. Si knows it’s churnin’ day. I’m glad it’s 
sweet an’ fresh.” 

She had scarcely turned again to her work when 
a pair of arms were flung around her neck from 
behind, and she heard: “Oh, Grandma, I am so 
tired!” 

“Land er massy, sakes alive! Why, Lyddy Wil- 
bur, whar under ther sun did ye come frum?” 
She turned just as Lydia slipped to the floor. 

Aunt Rhue dropped the butter-ladle and called 
for Uncle Nat, who was not far away: “Here, 
Father, quick; don’t stand there so helpless. Take 
hold uv Lyddy an’ help carry her in ter ther lounge. 
Pore child! travelin’ this long distance. Bring ther 
camfire while I take off her things. Now, Father, 


LYDIA OP LEBANON 165 

jest start ther fire an’ put on ther kittle an’ we’ll 
soon hev Lyddy ez chipper ez ever.” 

She tenderly removed the wraps, loosed her neck 
and wrist bands, and bathed her temples, but there 
was no sign of returning consciousness. 

“Father, go into my room, quick, an’ bring ther 
little bottle Lyddy give me when she graduated; 
now, hurry!” 

Before he returned, Lydia opened her eyes and 
asked: “Where am I?” 

“Why, Lyddy, child, ye air home on Lebanon. 
Now lay still an’ rest. Ye air all right. Er cup 
uv Imperial with real cream will soon restore ye.” 
As she stood looking down at Lydia, two great 
tears rolled down her cheeks. 

Aunt Rhue was a wise woman and tiptoed lightly 
into the kitchen, murmuring: “Ef thet old cur- 
mudgeon with all her thees an’ thous hez hurt our 
leetle gal, she’ll pay fer it. Pore little thing, all 
we’ve got in ther world.” Quietly, she went about 
her task of preparing the evening meal, bemoaning 
the fact that she did not know Lydia was coming 
so that she could have more variety. 

Every few minutes, she stole to the door to listen 
to the easy, quiet breathing, which told that Lydia 
was sleeping the sleep of weariness and exhaustion. 
Uncle Nat poked his head in the door occasionally 
to hear how she was and Jake did most of the chores 
that night. 


166 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

It was midsummer on Lebanon. Lydia had long 
ago recovered from the severe strain and was blithe 
and happy. The one thing that was disturbing the 
peace of Lebanon at this time was the news that an 
impertinent railroad proposition was about to poke 
its nose into the valley below and worm its way on 
through to Alden Center. 

On Philip’s last visit, he had told them about it 
and the weekly paper had threshed out the ques- 
tion, and now they were sure it was bona fide. 
Every afternoon, with field-glass in hand, Lydia 
would cross the road and disappear through the 
south orchard and on until she reached the brow 
of the ledge lot, where she could look for miles 
down the valley either way. 

The surveyor’s gang was busy blazing trees and 
placing stations of pegs to mark the trail as they 
pressed forward. Here and there along the line 
gleamed the white tent homes of the different gangs. 
They seemed a quiet, unobtrusive lot of men and 
kept much to themselves. But the dread of the 
fiotsam and jetsam of the large cities being brought 
there and dumped among those dear old hills, 
brought resentment among the farmers. Even the 
huge granite boulders seemed to resent it with their 
grim, gray shoulders standing out as sentinels 
against the sky. 

“Wall, Lyddy, whar air ye off ter this early in 
ther day?’’ asked Uncle Nat, looking up from his 
harness-mending just inside the bam-door, as Lydia 
stood before him, dressed in a short riding-habit 
of dark bottle-green cloth. Her little hat of finest 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


167 


felt to match in color her habit, had a long, black 
quill stuck jauntily in the side and her neat brown 
riding-gauntlets completed her costume. Her abun- 
dant chestnut-brown hair was tumbled by the wind 
and full of tiny kinky curls that seemed to love to 
fall next her neck and cheek, which was all pink and 
dimpled. ^ Her eyes, the same color as her hair, 
danced with the joy of health and happiness shining 
in them. She looked a veritable picture as she 
stood framed in the wide bam-door. 

“I am going to Alden, Grandpa, and will stay 
with Mrs. St. Alban for lunch. You know she is 
here for the summer with her babies. Can I do 
anything for you?” 

“Wall, I dunno ez ye’d care ter take this ’ere 
strap an’ leave it with Jim, ther cobbler. I want 
this ’ere buckle sewed on good an’ strong.” 

“Sure, I will. Just hand it to me, and I’ll bring 
it back to you when I return. I am glad to do it. 
Here comes Jake with Trix, and she wants her 
apple before we go. How I love her! Do you sup- 
pose Philip would sell her? It was so good of Philip 
to train and bring her to me. But, Grandpa, I can 
not keep her much longer. Philip will be home from 
Boston the last of the week, and must find her in 
her stall. Hand me the strap, Jake, if you please.” 
As she settled herself in the saddle, she said: “This 
is a glorious morning for a canter.” 

Her grandfather came with the strap himself and, 
as he handed it to her, she bent and touched his 
forehead with her lips and was off. 

Trix loped along until she reached the highway; 
then Lydia tightened the rein and the horse, with 
high head, cantered along. For some distance, the 


168 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


road lay straight ahead. The rays of the sun cast 
dancing shadows from the branches overhead. The 
voice of the meadow lark in teaching her brood to 
fly was heard. The late yellow violets nodded their 
tiny heads from the fence comers and a shadow 
crossed her path from overhead. Stopping her 
horse and looking up, she saw a huge hawk circling 
on tilted wing above her, ready for a plunge on 
some unsuspecting prey. Lydia drew rein. Her 
face was flushed with happiness; she patted her 
horse on the neck lovingly and said: 

“Let’s have a race, Trixy, to the comer.” 

The horse pricked up her ears and, as she felt 
free rein, dashed away, full of life, both maiden and 
animal gloriously enjoying the race. On and on, 
they went as free as the delicious wind that fanned 
their faces. Down past the hazel dell and over the 
little bridge. Trix, with dilated nostrils and flow- 
ing mane, enjoyed the race as well as Lydia. They 
had almost reached the turn to Alden Center, leav- 
ing a cloud of dust behind them, when suddenly 
the sharp report of a rifle sent Trix plunging into 
the air. Lydia rose in her saddle and, clutching 
her horse’s mane, began to pat her neck. Again, 
the loud report was head; again, Lydia patted and 
called to the animal to stop; but she reared in a 
frightful manner and came to a stand-still so abmptly 
as to send Lydia flying to the groimd a few feet 
distant. 

“Are you hurt?” immediately called a voice from 
across the road. “Oh, how careless of me!” and 
instantly there bent over her a young man. 

“Not a bit hurt, thank you. Just help me to 
my feet. Trix, that was a disgraceful break.” 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


169 


The young man tried to raise Lydia to her feet. 
A cry of pain caused him to lower her carefully to 
the ground again. 

“I think I have turned my ankle. Please help 
me on my horse that I may return home at once.” 

Again, the young man helped her. A spasm of 
pain crossed the white face, but she resolutely pulled 
herself together and said: “Please bring my horse 
near and help me to the saddle. I will be all right.” 

He made a stirrup of his hands and bade her 
rest one hand on his shoulder, and he placed her 
in her saddle; then, removing his hat, he said: 

“I am more grieved than I can express. It would 
be cowardly to beg pardon for such gross careless- 
ness. I will lead your horse carefully and make 
the return trip home. You are a plucky girl, all 
right. In the meantime, I will introduce myself as 
Roger Connolly, and I believe I am addressing Miss 
Wilbur, of Lebanon.” 

“Yes, I am Miss Wilbur.” As she spoke, her 
voice trembled with the suffering of pain. “You 
must hurry, Trixy.” 

“Father, come quick. Thar’s er young man 
cornin’ through ther gate, leadin’ Trix, an’ Lyddy 
is settin’ up like er stick on her back. Hurry up.” 

“I’m cornin’. Mother,” and Uncle Nat emerged 
from the smoke-house with a plump, sugar-cured 
ham, which he quickly dropped at sight of Lydia’s 
white face. “Jerusalem artichokes,” he exclaimed, 
“what in the world is ther matter with our leetle 
gal?” As he lifted her from the saddle, she fainted. 

“Here, young man, help me get my granddaughter 
in ther house. The camfire. Mother, quick. There, 
there! She’s all right now,” as they placed her on 


170 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


the lounge. Turning to the stranger, he demanded : 
“Now, young man, give an account uv yer share 
in this affair,” as he quietly loosened her little riding- 
boot. 

At this, Lydia opened her eyes. “This is Mr. 
Connolly, Grandpa, and he has been very kind, 
kind ” and she again drifted off into uncon- 

sciousness. 

“Mother, jest blow ther horn fer Jake ter go fer 
ther doctor. Ther child must be looked arter.” 

“Please, Mr. Wilbur, may I have that privilege?” 
and, before Uncle Nat could answer, the young 
man was on Trix and down the road. 

“Now, Father, ye gather some wormwood ez 
quick ez ye kin, bruise it well, moisten with some 
vinegar, an’ bring it ter me. In ther meantime, I 
will loosen her clothes an’ git her ter bed. Pore 
leetle gal, so happy this momin’.” 

By this time, Lydia’s ankle was swollen and red 
and, each time it was touched, brought forth a low 
moan. 

“By cracky. I’d jest like ter know how it hap- 
pened,” said Uncle Nat. 

The wormwood was carefully bandaged about 
the swollen ankle. Aunt Rhue stood with camphor- 
bottle in hand, while Uncle Nat, with glass and 
spoon in hand, was trying tenderly to coax her to 
swallow a little grape wine. 

“Take it, child, it will do yer good.” 

After a few swallows, Lydia opened her eyes arid 
asked: “What is the matter? Where am I?” 

“Nothing ser’us, child, ye only hurt yer foot, but 
it’ll soon be all right. Lie quiet an’ rest.” 

Uncle Nat sat by Lydia’s side while Aunt Rhue 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


171 


busied herself with preparations for dinner. As she 
stepped to the door to blow the dinner-hom, the 
doctor rode up to the door, leading Trix. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

Several weeks later, Si Newman’s toot warned 
the hill-folk there was news for them. Uncle Nat 
walked down to the stage and soon returned with 
several letters and papers, one of which was from 
Lydia’s grandmother. As Lydia unfolded the letter 
and began to read, the color deepened in her cheeks. 
“Dear Lydia: 

“The train that carries this letter would find me 
en route for Mt. Lebanon were it not such a long 
and hot journey this time of the year, so I am doing 
the next best thing — writing my plans. I have 
concluded to go to Europe and spend the autumn 
and winter there, and have also decided that thee 
must accompany me. It will do thee good. Thee 
will meet distinguished people, and we will fioat 
from city to city, visit famous art-galleries, and 
attend musical concerts, the like of which thee has 
never known. My friend, Mrs. Brown, and son, 
David, will be of the party. Just think of what is 
in store for thee! I will personally attend to re- 
plenishing thy wardrobe. Let me hear from thee 
at once. My respects to thy grandparents. With 
love, 

“Thy grandmother, 

“Margaret Filmore.’’ 


172 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


Aunt Rhue was sitting near and noticed Lydia’s 
agitation, but said nothing. 

“This letter is from Grandmother Filmore,’’ said 
Lydia, and proceeded to read it aloud. When she 
had finished, she asked: “What do you think of 
that? I wish she would not bother me so. I no 
sooner get settled in mind, before she looms up 
with some new plan. I am so happy here with you 
and Grandpa. By the way, there is something I 
want to talk about while we are alone.” 

“Wall, Lyddy, what is it?” 

“Do you think Grandpa looks well? He does 
not eat as usual and seems so tired all the time. I 
feel worried about him. 

“Lyddy, yer grandfather is not well,” replied 
Aunt Rhue, with quick words and a sigh. 

“Don’t you think life is a great mystery, Grand- 
ma? So many different people, so many different 
troubles, so many beautiful things, so many things 
to disturb one, so many unnecessary trials, so many 
unkindnesses that hurt. I often think of that little 
verse and how true it is : 

“ ‘So many gods, so many creeds. 

So many ways that wind and wind. 

When everything this old world needs. 

Is just the act of being kind.’ ” 

“Yes, Lyddy, ye air erbout right. Life is ruther 
er cur’us thing. I often liken it ter er bit uv tapestry 
er colored embroidery with its glint uv brightness 
an’ shadow, joy an’ sorrow, happiness an’ misery. 
It’s life an’, in ther end, death, all an alternating 
web; here er bit uv sunshine, ther er bit uv cloud, 
here er shade uv darkness, there er bit of light. 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


173 


I tell ye, Lyddy, it’s er hit an’ miss stripe, all right. 
Ther loom uv life weaves slow but it weaves cor- 
rect in ther end. We reap what we sow. We can’t 
sow harsh words an’ reap blessings any more than 
we can sow evil, tantalizing deeds, an’ expect good 
results. Some people look down on ther workin’ 
man er woman, but labor is pure an’ good — a 
noble thing it is, ther savor of life, ther girdle uv 
true manliness an’ womanliness.” 

“I understand as never before,” said Lydia, slowly. 
“What can I do in a case like this? I do not want 
to go, yet I don’t want to do nor say anything to 
vex Grandmother Filmore. I simply can not go 
with her and live as though I cared for her, when I 
do not. What is travel and sight-seeing to peace 
and happiness. No, Grandma, please do not ask 
me to. She is just beginning to reap what she 
sowed twenty years ago when Mother, dear little 
Mother, was forced to leave home. She is an un- 
natural grandmother and wants me only from self- 
ish motives. I shall write this very night and tell 
her I can not go.” 

“Now, Lyddy, don’t be harsh. Yer grandmother 
hez suffered, I reckon. Don’t reproach her. Hide 
yer feelin’s, child, hide ’em. Jest smile ’em all 
erway.” 

“It’s all right. Grandma, but you did not live 
under the same roof four years with her. It’s all 
charity and philanthropy and worrying and working 
to better the surroundings and beautify the old 
Quaker church.” 

“Nevermind, Lyddy. Ye jest do yer part. Be er 
good girl an’ don’t slight yer grandmother. But yer 
don’t hev ter go ter Europe ef yer don’t want ter.” 


174 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


“Grandma, how I love you. What a good and 
true woman you are!” 

“La, child, better run open ther oven-door. I 
smell them Pound Sweets bakin’ an’ I’ll wager 
they’re done ter er turn.” 

“Grandma lives her religion,” Lydia said to her- 
self, as she crossed the room. “It takes more than 
going to church and saying grace to constitute a 
Christian. She doesn’t sit with folded hands and 
crossed feet, waiting for the millennium. I’ve come 
to the conclusion that the accident of birth does 
not always constitute relationship. Patrick Henry 
said: ‘I’m not responsible for being bom, but it’s 
my outlook to hold on to my equality.’ ” As she 
closed the oven door and looked up, the room was 
empty. 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

The next morning was bright and the warm, 
cheery sunshine greeted Mrs. Filmore as she looked 
out the library-window. The rain clouds had dis- 
appeared. Streaks of blue showed through the light, 
fluffy clouds; a robin was tilting up and down in an 
effort to pull from the sward a plump worm for 
her breakfast. Shadows from the trees formed a 
delicate tracery on the criss-cross brick walk leading 
to the street. 

“I wonder what train Lydia will come on. I 
must have David meet them all. What a handsome 
couple they will make. David will have plenty of 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


175 


time to court Lydia in real, old-fashioned loverlike 
way, on the boat going over, and Lydia must answer 
yes when the vital question is asked. I will look 
out for that. Those two fortunes united will make 
a royal inheritance for Lydia. She simply must 
not vegetate longer on Lebanon. I dare not risk it.” 

The postman’s quick tread aroused Mrs. Filmore, 
and soon through the open door came Chloe with 
the morning mail. Selecting one postmarked Alder- 
son, Vermont, she thought: 

“This will tell the story; it will answer the prob- 
lem and^tell me the train on which Lydia will come.” 

Opening it, still standing, she withdrew the sheet 
and read : 

“Dear Grandmother: 

“How kind and sweet of you to invite me on 
that lovely trip to Europe with you next month. I 
surely appreciate how delightful it would be, but. 
Grandmother, I must beg to decline. I feel it my 
duty and pleasure to stay on Lebanon this summer. 
Grandpa Wilbtu: is far from well, and I know it 
would be wrong to leave Grandma alone and go so 
far away. So please pardon me for not accepting 
your invitation. I shall hope to hear from you 
often during your travels. Remember me to Chloe 
and Aunt Mandy. Tell Calib not to forget the 
roses and labumiuns. 

“Your loving granddaughter, 

“Lydia Wilbur.” 

Slowly, Mrs. Filmore folded and replaced the 
letter in its envelope; then, seating herself, she 
dropped her head in deep thought, murmuring: 
“She does not want to go. Hopes to hear from me 


176 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


often. Well, we will see about that. Art thou 
crazy, Lydia Wilbur, to throw away such a trip 
for an old man who is quite likely to live for years? 
Thee must not do it. I will not allow it. Thee 
must and will accompany me on this trip or all is 
lost. I wonder if thou art interested in some coun- 
try booby. No, no, Lydia is too fastidious for that. 
It really must be her love and respect for venerable 
years that is keeping her. Her appeal for pardon, 
though a pathetic one, will not be granted. No, 
Lydia, thee must and shall go with me. Thy fool- 
ish whim about thy grandparents is nonsense.'' 

She arose and touched a bell-rope. When the 
servant answered, she said: “Chloe, tell Calib to 
have the carriage at the door at 9:45 sharp. I am 
going to see Miss Lydia." 

“Am Miss Lyddy sick?" 

“No, Chloe, thy young mistress is not ill, but I 
think a few days among the mountains will do me 
good. I leave everything in thy care, Chloe. Look 
well to thy charge. Now pack my bag for several 
days’ journey." 

“Grandmother Filmore, please don’t. I can like 
almost anybody and anything, but I am too old 
to be driven. As for David, I care not whether he 
exists or not. My self-respect and loyalty to true 
womanhood will not allow myself to be thrown at 
an}’', man. No, this is final. I am of age and my 
own mistress. I have enough of my very own to 
take care of me. I thank you, but I can not accom- 
pany you to Europe this time." 

Mrs. Filmore began to realize that all was over. 
Lydia would not leave Lebanon. Her anger knew 


LYDIA OP LEBANON 177 

no bounds, but she kept it well restrained. Em- 
barrassment was plainly visible. 

“Very well, Lydia, thee will repent thy decision 
when it will be too late. I am completely surprised 
at your ingratitude.” 

Lydia wearily raised her hand to her forehead and 
choking back a sob replied: “Grandmother, I am 
not ungrateful. I fully appreciate all you have ever 
done for me. You wonder why I prefer to stay on 
Lebanon. I will tell you frankly, as I am driven 
to it. You gave me a lovely home, exquisite clothes, 
educational advantages, surrounded me with luxury 
and everything that money could buy; but to the 
homesick country girl, bereft of the tenderest ties 
of sympathy and affection, you gave no love, never 
the slightest, tiniest bit. Grandmother, there was 
not a soul in the whole city so hungry as I. How I 
longed and thirsted for the tender love and care of my 
precious Lebanon grandparents. Yes, I longed for 
the privilege of throwing my arms around even old 
Brindle’s neck, or having the loving caress of Rover. 

“Now, you know what the ties are that bind me 
here — love — and at the same time make a trip 
to Europe with you impossible. The time once 
existed when I loved you and no sacrifice would 
have been too great for me to make for you, but. 
Grandmother, I can not suffer again as I have, even 
to please you. Forgive me, but I don’t want to go 
to Emope. I don’t want to meet any more what 
you call refined people. I am no fighter — only a 
common flesh and blood country girl. I am un- 
accustomed to men and years with them would 
make no difference. I have suffered enough. Please 
leave me here in peace.” 


178 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


This was too much for Aunt Rhue. ‘T’ll tell ye, 
ma’am, better leave ther leetle gal alone. Livin’ 
on Lebanon may not improve one in yer society 
manners, but we’re er leetle nearer God an’ I fer 
one am not er goin’ ter mortgage Lyddy’s happi- 
ness, ner bankrupt my own self-respect by launch- 
in’ her inter whut ye call society. Ye speak uv 
Lyddy leadin’ er narrer life. In this case, I reckon 
narrertiess is er virtue, an’ we’ve no desire ter swap 
our places with ther people uv broadenin’ views. 
We may live somewhat by ourselves, but, ef my 
mem’ry serves me right, people who live in ther 
cities, an’ mind ther own business, an’ live quietlike 
air called exclusive, so I guess we air all right. How- 
somever, we don’t care a jot. Ther word, society, is 
only er relative term an’ is ez artificial er er paste 
diamond er a gold brick, which some shysters try 
ter pa’m off not only on ther country jakes but 
some uv yer city smarties. This leetle gal uv ours 
is more to us than society er dresses er jewels er 
travels. We want ter see her happy, an’ when she 
gits well, mind yer, she can pick an’ choose ter suit 
herself. Her grandpa ner I don’t want ter be er 
stumblin’ block in Lyddy’s way, but she’s got ter 
git well.” 

. Uncle Nat had taken no part in the conversation 
until Mrs. Filmore began to insist on Lydia’s going 
as far as Boston with her. Then he arose from his 
chair by the kitchen-window and walked into the 
living-room, and said : 

“Madam, ye air my guest, but this is my house. 
We know ye spent er lot uv money on Lyddy. Ye 
give her an education an’ fine clothes. Ye inter- 
duced her ter yer friends, an’ she rode in fine car- 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


179 


riages. Don’t think fer er minnit, we don’t appreci- 
ate it, but, mark my words, ye can’t force thet child 
out er this house; no, siree! She’s mine, she is; 
mine an’ Mother’s, all ther leetle gal we’ve got. 
No, Mother, don’t talk ter me ’bout calmin’ down. 
I’m goin’ ter have my say fer once an’ all. Our 
Lyddy is sweet an’ good an’ innocent an’ she shan’t 
be dmv inter no rotten city society. I won’t hev 
her harassed any more. Ef ther time comes when 
Lyddy wants ter go an’ says so uv her own free will, 
she shall; but till thet time comes, she’s goin’ ter 
stay on Lebanon. 

“An’ emother thing, yer needn’t try ter wheedle 
her inter doin’ anything she don’t want ter,’’ and 
Uncle Nat brought his fist down on the arm of his 
chair. “She’s our’n. Her father wuz our boy. 
Yes, Mrs. Filmore, her mother was your daughter, 
but ther least said erbout thet, ther better. We 
jest happen ter know er leetle erbout yer mother- 
love fer her.’’ 

Uncle Nat sat quiet, with white face and set 
jaw for a moment, and, without another word, 
left the room and fell exhausted on the kitchen- 
lounge. 

Aunt Rhue quickly followed and bent over his 
prostrate form. 

“My God!’’ he murmured. “Mother, did I do 
wrong?’’ 

“No, no. Father. I guess thet matter’s settled 
fer good an’ all.’’ 

“Do ye think Lyddy ’ll hate me,’’ he moaned. 

“No, dear Grandpa, my own faithful grandpa. 
You were a patriot, a regular Patrick Henry,’’ and 
Lydia smoothed his forehead. 


180 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


As Aunt Rhue returned to the living-room, Mrs. 
Filmore was profuse with apologies. 

“No apology is necessary, ma’am. We’re some- 
what like a passel uv hornets here on Lebanon. We 
can stand considerable stirrin’ up, but occasionally 
hev ter sting. Jest er few words, then we’ll close 
ther case ferever. Ye mustn’t make ther mistake 
ter think because Lyddy’s got Filmore blood in her, 
thet ye can map out her life. Not er bit uv it. Yer 
kin talk erbout yer blue blood an’ aristocracy, but 
it kinder strikes me thet it don’t do no harm ter 
mix it up occasionally with er leetle good martial- 
spirited red, an’ I sort o’ imagine it would hev 
turned out all right ef Lyddy’s parents cud hev 
lived, God love ’em. Lyddy, ma’am, ef I’m any 
judge, is quite equal ter engineer any emergency ez 
it develops an’ I want yer ter know ef thet ’ere 
paper hed read ter give her to you, ye’d never hed 
ter ask fer her; but ez it didn’t, we’re goin’ ter bide 
by its rules an’ regulations.’’ 

“Thee must not be too sure. Sister Wilbur. You 
may be mistaken.’’ 

“Not er bit uv it. I know what I’m talkin’ 
erbout, fer we’ve got er verbatim copy all right 
thet’ll prove every word on it. It were er hard 
task fer Father, I assure ye, ter copy ther pore 
child’s dyin’ statement, but we thought it might 
come in handy ter hev her sentiments. No, ma’am, 
don’t say thet fer I hev no desire ter hurt yer feel- 
in’s, but ter speak plain, I’m proper glad ter find 
ye hev some; but ye mustn’t fergit, we air all made 
uv ther same material, nerves an’ brain an’ hearts. 
But let’s quit ferever. Jest s’pose we let Lyddy cut 
an’ choose fer herself hereafter.’’ 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


181 


Mrs. Fihnore raised her hands in horror. “Why, 
Friend Wilbur, thee is unreasonable. That is simply 
impossible. She might become tangled up in some 
sort of country matrimonial alliance. No, no, that 
will never do. She must see more of the world. It 
would be robbing her of her rightful heritage.” 

“Mrs. Filmore, please excuse me. I must see 
erbout ther vituals fer supper.” 

Once again, the Overland had a passenger from 
Lebanon and Si Newman thought she was more 
quiet and dignified than any “goldamed woman” 
he had ever carried over the road. But when, at 
the end of the journey, she laid her little gray silk- 
covered hand in his and said: “I thank thee. Friend 
Newman, for thy careful, gentle driving,” and left 
a shining gold coin in his hand, he said to himself, 
when she was gone : 

“Gosh all fish-hooks, she’s certainly the gol- 
damdest queerest leetle ol’ woman I ever sot eyes 
on, but I take notice she didn’t take er mountain 
daisy back with her an’ I’m glad uv it. Lyddy’s 
better off on Leb’non. I’ll jest step over ter Jim 
Johnson’s flowery an’ buy her er leetle posy. Thet’ll 
jest set her up. She’s not been lookin’ very pert 
fer some time. Yer can’t fool yer Uncle Si. Thar’s 
somethin’ worryin’ ther gal an’ I know it, but ther 
sech er close-mouthed crew, them Wilburs. I’m a 
leetle afraid ther leetle gray woman hez er finger in 
ther pie, but Si’ll lay low an’ keep an eye on Lyddy. 
I wonder why Phil Strong don’t show up oftener. 
Ef Lyddy don’t pick up. I’ll hev Phil pry inter 
proceedin’s. Who ever thought Phil Strong would 
ever turn into er full-fledged lawyer? I’ve hed my 
eye on him ever since he left Leb’non. Gosh all 


182 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


fish-hooks, I wonder ef thet sucker, Connolly, hez 
anything ter do with Lyddy’s feelin’s. I’ll put er 
shot in his locker some day an’ find out.” 


CHAPTER XXVII.. 

Very often, Roger Connolly came to see Lydia 
in the cool of the summer evenings. Their acquain- 
tance ripened into intimacy and many an anxious 
glance did Aunt Rhue give over her glasses and 
many , a restless night did Uncle Nat have. Con- 
nolly was college-educated and many an interest- 
ing conversation did Lydia enjoy about college-life. 
She had had good times at the seminary. Life 
there had not been all work and no play. One 
evening, yoimg Connolly said : 

‘T wish you might go to college. Miss Lydia. 
You sure would mie a shining star at their clubs 
and sororities, their midnight lunches, and other 
frivolities.” 

“I have thought a great deal about college, but 
never of those things. Has yoiu: sister been to 
college?” 

“No, nor does she care to go. Sis is the dearest 
girl in all the world, present company excepted. 
You see. Miss Lydia, Father was country-bred and 
reared, and he has trained Mollie. Mother was 
city-bred and she’s trained me. She wanted one 
trained branch of the family-tree and, as Moll abso- 
lutely refused to go, I had to be offered up a living 
sacrifice on the altar of Harvard,” laughed the 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


183 


young man. “By the way, Miss Lydia, you don’t 
seem like any countiy girl I ever met before, and 
by Jove, as a harpist, you certainly excel. Do 
you know. I’ve changed my mind about the country 
and have about come to the conclusion that Father’s 
about right. Why, he would near go crazy over 
Lebanon. Where did your grandparents get the 
plans for this delightful, rambling, bungalow- 
fashioned home ? It seems quite out of place among 
these rugged old mountains.’’ 

“It was built the last year I was away to school. 
Grandpa and Grandma have been planning this 
home for years and, as it came rather late in life. 
Grandpa would have it built mostly on one floor 
on account of Grandma. He made several trips to 
different cities and consulted architects until he 
found about what he wanted. The steps and balus- 
trade are our own Lebanon granite, quarried from 
Grandpa’s own ledge, and the water-supply is from 
crystal spring in the hollow, forced up by a ram.’’ 

“I must say, I never saw such perfect harmony 
exist in family life before as I have here. I am 
almost persuaded to be a farmer myself. When I 
left school, our family doctor said outdoor life for 
Roger for a year or two. One of Father’s old friends 
was engineering this right of way for the P. & 0., 
and he induced me to come along. I can’t say I 
like it and should have been gone long ago but for 
a certain young maiden whose society I very much 
enjoy and whose voice is melody to me, and do 
you know, the more I see of her, the deeper my 
devotion to country life.’’ 

Lydia’s face was an interesting study. Such con- 
versation was new to her. Aunt Rhue came and 


184 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


stood in the doorway. Her face grew troubled as 
she saw the grave look on Lydia’s face. ^ She wished 
in her heart she had not allowed this intmacy to 
progress, but she trusted Lydia implicitly and 
returned to her work. 

Lydia arose and said: “Pardon me, but I think 
Grandma wants me. Will you come inside?’’ 

“No, thank you. I will go. I have a book I 
think you will enjoy and want to ask you to accept 
it. I am coming to-morrow afternoon to take you 
for a ride.’’ 

“Thank you, but it will be impossible. Uncle 
and Aunt Phillips are coming to visit us. I have 
not seen them in ages.’’ 

Young Connolly extended his hand, bade her 
good-by, and was soon gone. 

On entering the house, Lydia hunted her grand- 
mother and asked: “How about the wild berries. 
Grandma? Will you come with me? If you are 
not too tired, we will go to the edge of the woods in 
the north pasture. They grow largest there. I 
have a vagabond desire to ramble to-day. I feel 
just like I used to when I was a child.’’ 

“Hush! When yer wuz er child! Why, Lyddy 
Wilbur, what air ye now?’’ 

“Come on. Grandma. I long for the woodsey 
odor and the hum of the busy insects. Well, Rover 
boy, are you going, too?’’ and she stooped and patted 
his head. “If you do, you must carry the basket.’’ 
Rover obediently opened his mouth for the handle. 

^ That evening Uncle Nat and Aimt Rhue were 
sitting on the piazza, facing the west. The soft 
moonlight filtered through the morning glory vines 
and made a dancing lacey tracery on the floor. 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


185 


The soft, sweet strains of music from the harp 
floated through the windows as Lydia idly played. 
Aunt Rhue sat with hands clasped in her lap, a 
look of anxiety on her face. 

^ “Air ye feelin’ better. Father?” she asked as she 
hitched her chair alongside of him. 

“Yes, Fm all right, now. It is only when thet 
tamal pain pumps so hard thet my bellows gets out 
uv order. Er leetle wild cherry bark an’ burdock 
root will set me up all right. Never fear erbout me. 
Mother.” 

“Say, Father,” and she laid her hand on his arm, 
“what do yer think erbout thet ’ere city feller 
cornin’ here so much lately?” 

“Now, see here. Mother, yer needn’t lose any 
sleep over him. Lyddy is erbundantly able ter take 
keer uv his case when ther time comes. Lyddy’s 
er remarkable gal. Mother, an’ her contact with 
ther world an’ yer teachin’s hev already taught 
her what honor is. Thet leetle girl hain’t ter be 
sneezed at. No, siree, don’t ye spend eny time 
worryin’ erbout her, fer she kin hoe her own row 
an’, ef it should git too tejus fer her, she knows whar 
ter git assistance. Never fear, Mother, never fear, 
she’ll tell yer when ther right time comes. Her 
leetle heart an’ soul hev been er reg’lar battle-field 
already, an’ she knows purty nigh what ammuni- 
tion ter use. Ther gal must hev some friends out- 
side uv us two old people. I think it wuz Cicero 
who said: ‘What sweetness is left in life ef yer take 
erway friendship?’ or somethin’ ter thet effect.”^ 

pssj 

“Good morning. Miss Lydia,” said Roger Con- 
nolly, as, with extended hand, he approached Lydia, 


186 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


who was coming from the spring-house with a 
pitcher of cream. She looked delightfully cool in a 
dainty, lavender-sprigged print dress. Her sleeves 
were rolled back to her elbows and neckband was 
well turned in. The wind had played havoc with 
her hair, which was kinkier than ever, and a rosy 
flush overspread her cheeks. 

“Good morning, Mr. Connolly,” and she shook 
hands with him. “You are abroad early. Will you 
come in?” 

“No, I thank you. I will rest here.” 

“I will take the cream to Grandma, who is wait- 
ing for it; then I will return.” 

“Gad, but she’s a peach and well worth the pick- 
ing, regardless of what the Mater would say. She 
would be an acquisition to any society, and I’ll 
just settle the matter this morning. I hope the old 
lady will keep indoors to her cooking.” 

Lydia soon retiimed, and, smoothing out her 
dainty white apron, sat down opposite her guest. 

“Here is The Bolton Herald; came in yesterday, 
and there’s an item I think you’ll be somewhat in- 
terested in, as it concerns a friend of yours.” 

He opened the paper and pointed to a paragraph 
in the society news. Lydia took the paper and read : 

“Mr. and Mrs. S. Montgomery, of Springfield, 
Mass., announce the engagement of their daughter, 
Elizabeth, to Philip Strong, attomey-at-law and 
partner of Judge Palmer, at Bolton, Vermont. Mr. 
Strong is a young man of unusual ability and prom- 
ises a successful futiure.” 

Lydia held the paper with never a muscle’s quiver 
and replied, smiling: “Yes, indeed, Philip Strong is 
an old friend of mine, and I prize his friendship 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


187 


dearly. We spent many happy days together on 
Lebanon, and I wish dear old Philip all the happi- 
ness possible. He was the only brother I ever knew. ’ ’ 

Roger Connolly sat like a statue. Lydia received 
the news so differently from what he had expected. 
Other girls he had known had simply interested 
him and touched his heart a bit, but it remained for 
this quiet, unassuming county girl to take complete 
possession of it. He was willing to confess to her 
his past and in his mind could see her ready forgive- 
ness, and how she would absolve him from any 
folly. He would cut out the proposed government 
position, marry Lydia, and settle down. With her 
contented companionship, a pair of good saddle- 
horses, his dogs, his guns, and fishing-tackle, he felt 
he could be happy, and he made up his mind that 
he would be worthy of her. 

“Yes, I have heard you and Strong were great 
chums. By the way, why did he drift away from 
Lebanon?” 

“It was ambition that beckoned and he could not 
resist it,” Lydia told him with a smile. “Philip will 
carve a name for himself. He is one that will reach 
out and broaden until he will make himself abso- 
lutely necessary to his friends.” 

“You should not pin your faith so implicitly on 
your friends. They sometimes fail you, forsake you. ’ ’ 

“That might prove true of some, but not of 
Philip, Mr. Connolly. He is dependable. One can 
always rely on him.” 

Great presence of mind caused Roger Connolly 
to change the subject, although he was nettled. 
“We expect to break camp this week and move 
far beyond Alden.” 


188 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


“Indeed!” replied Lydia. “How is the work pro- 
gressing? I thought Alden was to be the terminal.” 

“So it was intended originally, but the directors 
have been over the line and think an extension 
practicable and a good investment. They find a 
rich territory beyond Alden, much valuable timber 
and granite there, if a way could be provided to 
market them. Father says there are millions in the 
granite alone through this part of the state. But 
I have found something here far more valuable than 
granite, Lydia. I love you and want you for my 
wife.” He reached across and laid his hand on hers. 
“If I will settle down and be a farmer, do you think 
you. could love me well enough to be my wife?” 

Lydia’s face blanched, then flushed. She did not 
withdraw her hand. She seemed stunned. Not waiting 
for an answer, he imwisely began to plead his case. 

“The country is the place for me. Miss Lydia. 
I am a different fellow for being here and knowing 
you. You see I’m not of much account in town. I 
sin before I really know it. You can mold me to 
your liking.” 

Lydia raised her moist eyes and said: “No, Mr. 
Connolly, I can not be your wife.” 

An angry flush mounted his brow. “Why, I would 
like to Imow?” 

“There are several reasons. First, I do not care 
for you as I think a woman should for the man 
she marries. Then, my grandfather is not well, 
and I could and would not think of such a thing 
at this time.” 

“I know the main reason,” Connolly said. “It 
is that fellow. Strong, that blocks my way; but you 
might as well give him up. He is altogether too 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


189 


fast for you. City life has spoiled your Lebanon 
hero; and I tell you again, I am a different fellow 
since I have known you. I want to settle down. I 
want a home with you to grace it. I never really 
knew what a home was until I became acquainted 
with Lebanon. As for your grandfather, he is fit 
for fifty years yet; such old codgers live forever.” 

Lydia looked up startled. He saw her face blanch 
and her lips quiver. Then straightening up, she 
said: “Mr. Connolly, please leave me, I pray. You 
have insulted my love, respect and reverence for 
both my grandfather and Philip Strong, and have 
killed with one master stroke any feeling of respect 
and friendship I ever had for you. Why is there so 
much uncalled for suffering in the world, I would 
like to know?” 

“Oh, Lydia, forgive me. I was beside myself with 
love for you. Don’t let me drift back, for God’s 
sake don’t. Don’t dismiss me this way.” 

“Mr. Connolly, don’t press me nor ask me to 
think this matter over. I am only a plain country 
girl. Go back to your city home; go back to your 
city friends. Forget about me and Lebanon. Be 
a man. Remember, though, that life’s best prizes 
are not won always by those filling fashionable and 
lofty positions, nor those who stand well in the 
eyes of the world. Tt is not what we have but 
what we are that really counts.’ It matters little 
that wealth and distinction are ours, if we neglect 
the cultivation of true living. My decision is final. 
I will bid you farewell.” 

“No, no. Miss Lydia, not farewell. I must see 
you again. Let bygones be bygones.” 

“Mr. Connolly, this is farewell.” 


190 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


As he lifted his hat and walked away, he said 
to himself: “Damn the luck. That confounded 
Strong is the stumbling-block all right, and the 
light allusion to her grandad was unfortunate. Gad, 
but she was regal as she stood there. But never 
mind. Miss Lydia, I’ll have you yet. You certainly 
are a stunner, a regular princess.’’ 

Lydia, after dismissing her suitor, walked around 
to the kitchen-door and on to the arbor, where she 
found her grandfather sitting. She went quietly 
to his side and, passing her arm around his neck, 
pressed her lips to his forehead. “Dear Grandpa,’’ 
she said, as she passed on to her room. 

Entering, she closed the door and went to the 
window and, looking toward Old Baldy, murmiured : 
“Dear brother Philip, and so he is engaged to be 
married. No more delightful visits, no more trips 
on horseback, no more the looked for home-comings. 
Oh, Philip, my brother! Come back once more. I 
need you, oh! I need you.’’ 

Like the faint breeze that can not stir the sttu'dy 
oak, no refrain came back, and Lydia settled down 
in the chair and gave up to revery, communed with 
the past, of bygone days with Philip. She moaned: 
“Oh, Philip! Where are you? I am weary with 
waiting. My God, hast thou forsaken me?’’ 

That evening, at supper-time, her grandfather 
said: “I heard yesterday in Bolton thet Philip Strong 
hed gone away.’’ 

“Where did he go?’’ asked Lydia. 

“How should I know? We hed er disagreement 
when he wuz here.’’ Lydia was silent. “Philip is 
too radical in his idees. Thinks he knows more than 
men twice his age. Says I will make a mistake ef I 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


191 


take ther offer of ther P. & 0. fer ther ledge-lot. 
Says it will be valuable later on. But money's 
money ter me, an’ it would fit in just right ter build 
ther new bam on ther Granger farm. He is a queer 
Dick lately, though good ez gold; but some uv his 
idees air visionary an’ whoo'ly impractical. What 
does he know about rocks an’ granites an’ what 
they’ll be worth.” 

“Why, Grandpa, Philip must know what he is 
talking about. Don’t be in a hurry to sign up with 
the P. & O.” 

As he gave no answer, she quietly arose and helped 
clear away the supper-things. Experience had 
taught her that it was no time to question further. 

As the summer drifted along, the heat seemed to 
tell on Lydia. She no longer took long walks or 
rides, but would in leisure moments lie on the bench 
under the grape-arbor, or idly swing in the stave 
hammock Philip had made for her. A yotmg neigh- 
bor girl assisted Aunt Rhue about the kitchen and 
dairy. This relieved Lydia and gave her more time 
for music and the languages, but those days even 
her loved harp was untouched. 

One afternoon, as Lydia and her grandmother 
were resting on the cool veranda, Lydia drew her 
little rocker near her grandmother and, la 3 dng her 
hand on the arm of the chair, sat quietly for a 
time; then, she startled her grandmother by saying: 
“Grandma, do you believe in love?” 

“Why, Lyddy Wilbur, what on airth do yer mean 
by askin’ sech er question? Uv course, I believe in 
love. Don’t I love you, an’ don’t yer grandpa love 
ye, an’ lots uv other folks love ye?” 

“O, yes, Grandma, but I do not mean that kind. 


192 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


I mean the kind that just blots out everything else, 
the kind that one would be satisfied with forever 
if they could have the one they wanted most. I 
can not explain it as I would, but the kind that 
makes a heaven here on earth; the kind my mother 
and father had, the kind that no sacrifice would be 
too great to make. I have read of it in poetry, in 
novels, and in the Bible, but I can not understand 
it. It seems so mysterious, so misleading. Does 
everybody who marries have to love that way?” 

“Wall, Lyddy, they shore ought ter.” 

“I know they ought to, but do they all really 
do so? Most of the married people I know do not 
appear to be so much in love with each other. If 
they are, they do not show it.” 

Aunt Rhue said: “See here, Lyddy, what yer 
drivin’ at? Ye jest wait unti you’ve hed some ex- 
perience before yer sum up any conclusions. It is 
not all in poetry nor story-books thet ye find ther 
true love. When ye come to hev er leetle more 
experience, it might change yer mind.” 

“But, Grandma, do you really believe n the love 
that endures unchangeable, forever, regardless of 
what happens?” 

“Now, see here, Lyddy Wilbur, ye jest stop 
worryin’ erbout sech things. Ther time will come 
quick emough when ye’ll understand. I must con- 
fess, ye air ther queerest an’ ther best gal I ever 
knew.” 

“Well, I’m just as you have trained me, to come 
to you with everything I d'd not understand. So 
when Roger Connolly told me yesterday he loved 
me and wanted me for his wife, I was so surprised; 
and when I told him I did not love him, he was 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


193 


angry. That is what made me ask you those ques- 
tions. I had always had the idea that kindness 
and sympathy and mutual understanding, and a 
desire to shield and protect and help, were synonyms 
oflove.”^ 

“Ye air right, dear, so they air. What is love 
more than harmony an’ peace, uv all things divine 
er human, uv God er man? I tell yer, our happiness 
in this life depends largely on our love fer our fel- 
low inan, an’ on ourselves ruther than on our sur- 
roundings an’ our bank-accounts; an’ when we hev 
er heart at peace with ther world an’ our Maker, 
I call that love ; but, child, yer definition is all right, 
an’ don’t, fer pity sake, let an3d:hing thet air city 
chap hez said disturb yer feelin’s.’’ 

“But, Grandma, I am so disappointed in him. 
I had thought of him only as a good friend.’’ 

“Wall, child, thar’s plenty uv disappointments an’ 
sorrows an’ often friends, like books, fail yer when 
yer begin ter find them ther most interestin’; but 
don’t brood an’ narrer down, ner be biased by any 
sech nonsense. Jest consider it er grist come ter 
yer mill, jest sift it all out, keep ther good grain, an’ 
throw away ther chaff. Sech experiences only win- 
now ther gold frum ther dross. Ye jest chirk up. 
Them air hollyhocks an’ asters needs er leetle atten- 
tion. Ther scissors air on ther candle-stand. A 
leetle work will do yer good an’ it is er pure an’ 
noble thing. Jest git near ter natur’, child. It’ll 
fill in ther chinks with sweet memories. Read some 
uv yer good books, them thet’s filled with noble 
sentiment, an’ cultivate the grand nature God hez 
give ye an’ in so doin’, never fergit thet ther mind 
is uv more consequence than ther body. Ye can 


194 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


dress up ther body in fine raiment er sackcloth, 
an’ arter yer done with it, jest fling it erside an’ 
thet’s an end ter it. 

“Ye sow er habit, ye reap er character. ‘Ye sow 
a character, ye reap a destiny.’ I don’t know who 
ther feller is who writ them lines, but he wuz in 
harmony with my way uv thinkin’. Ez I said, 
ther mind is uv more importance than ther body 
ter bring happiness an’ ther soul is more than 
both. 

“Jest close yer eyes ter all thet city chap said 
ter ye an’ be yer own happy self erg’in. Ye know, 
Lyddy, our lives air er kind uv tapestry an’ it’s 
ther hand uv God erlone, child, thet weaves ther 
pattern. Ther woof is not always bright, especially 
in noble lives er lives thet count, ez I told yer once 
before. Ther who’e web is generally hit an’ miss. 
Disappointments like yours seem like afflictions 
sometimes, but it’s er leetle dark stripe ter better 
bring out ther brightness thet we may best do ther 
work God hez planned. I tell ye it’s ther leetle 
silent victories thet air ther threads uv gold thet 
gleam out so bright in ther web uv life. Some pat- 
terns air more difficult because they air so mixed, 
but ther stripes uv brightness air ther ones God 
approves of. Don’t worry any more, child. What 
do ye s’pose is ther reason Philip Strong don’t write 
er come home?’’ 

“I have wondered about that myself. Grandma.’’ 

Aunt Rhue rose and said: “Lydia, do ye want 
yer grandpa ter head off thet city chap. Ef ye do, 
jest say ther word; he kin settle his cornin’ here in 
er minnit.’’ 

“Thank you. Grandma. I don’t mind his com- 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


195 


ing, now that the matter is settled. He is pleasant 
company, but I could never marry him, no, never.” 

“Wall, thank heaven fer thet,” said Aunt Rhue, 
as she left the room. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

When Philip Strong returned from Washington, 
a month later, it was near midnight. On his office- 
table, among some other mail, was a letter from 
Aunt Rhue, telling him of Lydia’s serious illness, 
of how, in her delirium she talked to him, of the 
old days when they were happy on Lebanon, and 
of how he had forgotten her, and she wound up 
by saying; “Philip Strong, ef ye hev any mercy on 
me, fer heaven’s sake, come ter Lebanon.” 

Philip settled down in his chair and reread the 
letter. Tired nature soon held him in slumber. 
Outside, the first early trace of daylight deepened. 
Still, Philip slept on, the sleep of utter exhaustion. 
The lamp had burned out and only a pile of gray 
ashes lay on the hearth. The clatter of horses’ 
feet on the pavement at last aroused him. He 
straightened up with a start, rubbed his eyes and 
arose, picked up and reread Aunt Rhue’s letter, 
went over to the window and, drawing the shade, 
looked out. 

“I must hasten on my way. Mother! Mother 
always taught that the one thing she always de- 
pended on was prayer.” For the first time in years, 
Philip dropped to the floor and, covering his face. 


196 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


said: “Oh, God! Mother’s God. Spare Lydia until 
I get there and help me to trust Thee in all things.” 

Philip hastily bathed and changed his clothes, ate 
a light breakfast, left word at his office that he had 
gone to Lebanon, went to the stable and, without 
a word, threw the saddle on, hastily mounted and 
rode off. The hours dragged along until noon. 
Finally, he drew up to a wayside tavern, halted, 
dismounted, and threw the reins to the hostler boy 
with an order to rub down, feed well, and have 
him saddled and at the door in a couple of hours. 
Entering the low bar or lounging-room, he ordered 
a light lunch. In due time, he was in the saddle 
again and, by taking bridle-paths and crosscuts, 
made good time. The hours grew longer and before 
long lengthened themselves into twilight. Still, 
Philip rode on. A profound silence seemed to reign 
about him; noises pitched to an unsual degree of 
softness added to the lonely ride; and an occasional 
discordant cry from the depths of the forest would 
reach him. Sweet memories flashed to him as he 
drew near dear old Lebanon, only to be driven 
back by the thought of Lydia’s serious illness. 

Aunt Rhue met him with a hug and, if a few 
tears fell on Philip’s cheek, he took no time to 
brush them away. After greeting Aunt Rhue, he 
went immediately into the room where Lydia lay. 
The subdued murmur of delirium caused him to 
shiver as with ague. He stood with folded arms 
at the foot of the bed. 

Aunt Rhue bent over the sufferer and said : 
“Lyddy, dear, Philip is here. Can’t ye speak ter 
him.” 

Slowly, the large eyes opened, then closed again. 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


197 


“Philip,” she murmured, and then the unintelligible 
talk of delirium filled the room. Aunt Rhue mo- 
tioned to Philip and they left the room together. 

“Aunt Rhue, will you tell me just how long 
Lydia has been sick, and what does the doctor say 
about her illness. We must have council at once. 
I will telegraph to Boston for the best diagnostician 
to come at once.” 

“Tut, tut, Philip, we don’t need none uv yer 
Boston specialists. They kin do no more than hez 
been done by ther Alderson an’ Bolton doctors; 
besides, our old Doctor WilbeforOe knows er bit 
more’n some uv yer new-fangled specialists. He 
says brain-fever must run its course an’ thet, when 
ther crisis comes, we must work like God Almighty 
ter save her. I told him he’d better say ter work 
‘with God Almighty,’ fer He erlone kin save her.” 

“My God!” groaned Philip. 

“Now, see here, Philip,” said Aunt Rhue, laying 
her hand on Philip’s shoulder. “I know more erbout 
Lyddy’s ravin’s than any one else an’ I believe you 
kin do more fer her than all ther specialists in 
Montpelier er Boston. Philip, it’s yer she wants. 
Kin ye stay er day er two?” 

Philip laid his hand on Aunt Rhue’s and said: 
“I can never thank you nor express how grateful 
I am. I will stay forever if necessary. You must 
be relieved and rest. I will watch over and care 
for Lydia at night. Who is this woman that is 
helping care for her?” 

“She’s frum Bolton, a cousin of Miss Snow. 
She’s a good, faithful, close-mouthed woman. She 
calls herself a practical nurse an’ ther doctor says 
she’s worth half a dozen white-capped, starched-up 


198 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


young nurses who fuss all ther time. I want ter 
tell yer, Philip, she’s all right in er case like this. 
Ye kin trust her ter ther limit.” 

“When will the doctor come again?” 

“Erbout nine erclock. He is out Baldy way an’ll 
stop on his way back; but come, my boy, an’ hev 
yer supper.” 

Philip stepped outside the kitchen-door and ran 
into Uncle Nat, who, with outstretched hands, said: 
“Welcome home, Philip. Ye an’ I must be friends. 
I wuz an old fool ter erlow myself ter say what I 
did ter ye last spring. Ye were right, Philip, erbout 
ther granite. I’ll acknowledge it, an’ I’m mighty 
glad ye put ther spurs inter me erbout sellin’ it fer 
er song.” 

“It’s all right. Uncle Nat, but it hurt when you 
said I had better attend to my own business and 
not meddle with yours; so I have tried to. But 
the thing that cut and cut deep was when you sent 
Trix back because I wouldn’t accept money for her. 
Uncle Nat, I raised and broke Trixy to saddle on 
purpose for Lydia. For five years, I groomed and 
petted and broke to side-saddle that horse for her. 
I even wore petticoats in breaking her that I might 
be sure she would be safe for Lydia to ride. No 
one but Lydia and myself has ever ridden her, and, 
if Lydia should not recover, no human being shall 
ever ride her again. Trix was to have been a birth- 
day present for her, but you made it impossible. I 
am here not at your invitation, but because Lydia 
is sick,” and Philip walked into the house. 

“Mighty high-spirited is thet Philip Strong, an’ 
er likely yoimg feller he is, to. But he can’t boss 
me on Lebanon. No, siree, I’ll hev no boss fer 


LYDIA OP LEBANON 


199 


Lyddy but what I’ll pay fer. Philip can’t afford 
ter give erway er colt like Trix. Why thet air 
animal is worth two hundred dollars ef she’s worth 
er cent.” 

Philip met the doctor and conversed about the 
case from the very beginning and inquired anxiously 
about the crisis and when it would likely be. The 
doctor said probably within the next twenty-four 
hours. Then, he proceeded to tell Philip just what 
to do, all the remedies necessary, of the ears of 
com to be boiled and kept in hot water to be wrapped 
in cloths and placed around her to husband the 
last spark of vitality, of the ready stimulant to be 
administered at the right moment, of the hot beef 
or chicken broth, and of the extreme exhaustion 
that would follow, and of the perfect quiet so nec- 
essary — but not one word of her probable recovery. 

After the doctor left, Philip told Aimt Rhue that 
he would lie down and take the much needed rest. 
He did not want to tmst himself for a twenty-four 
hour vigil without it. “Have everything in •readi- 
ness and call me at twelve o’clock; then you must 
retire.” He left the kitchen, and, throwing him- 
self on the loimge, was soon sleeping the sleep of 
utter exhaustion. 

Exactly at twelve o’clock. Aunt Rhue touched 
Philip. Instantly, he was on his feet and,^ after 
inquiring about Lydia, went outside the kitchen 
to the water tap and bathed his face and hands in 
the cool, refreshing, spring water of Lebanon. 

Aunt Rhue had prepared a substantial lunch, 
which he hastily partook of; then he carefully 
looked over everything necessary for the great 
crisis — the crisis that meant so much to them all — 


200 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


saw that even the boiler of ears of hot com was all 
right; that the kettle was filled for emergency use; 
that the brandy and even the broth, rich and nour- 
ishing, were in evidence. Then, he saw to it that 
Aunt Rhue and Uncle Nat were resting, and, enter- 
ing Lydia’s room, motioned the nurse away, after 
telling her to rest until he should call her. Then, 
settling himself beside Lydia, he took up his long 
vigil. 

Her delirium had given place to a stillness that 
was appalling. The fever closed around her in a 
jealous flame as though afraid it might be robbed of 
its prey, and Lydia, her form like marble, except 
for the glowing crimson spots on either cheek, was 
oblivious to the world. At times, it seemed almost 
as though her spirit had fled. Suspended animation 
reigned supreme. All night and all the next day 
and well on to midnight, did the supreme presence 
seem manifest with scales at even balance, waiting. 

Philip kept silent watch. He spoke no word, but 
his haggard face well told his anxiety and mental 
suflerihg. At two o’clock that morning, he heard 
the doctor’s gig drive up quietly into the yard. 
The faint glow of the shaded candle fell on the bed. 
Philip arose, straightened up, and tried to marshal 
some of his departed forces in order to meet the 
doctor. 

The doctor on coming in, passed without a word 
directly to the bedside, watch in hand, and silently 
gazed at Lydia. Putting his finger on the artery, 
he gravely counted the fluttering heart-beats. As 
he left the bedside, Philip whispered : 

“You expect the change soon?’’ 

The doctor nodded his head. 


LYDIA OP LEBANON 


201 


’“You will remain here the rest of the night?” 
The doctor again nodded his head. 

“Has she any chance?” 

“I don’t know. A very unusual case this. The 
crisis should have come hours ago; but every one 
has a fighting chance until life is extinct,” and he 
passed from the room. 

As the door closed, Philip crossed to the window 
and looked out into the inky darkness. “Mother, 
where is the God to whom you used to pray? Is He 
near us in this our great extremity? O, God, I 
beg that You hear this night, and if in Thy great 
wisdom, it seemeth best, save Oh, save this precious 
one.” 

At last, he sat down again by the bed, and, 
dropping his head in his hands, sighed for the gift 
of tears. He felt that he was paying the price of 
neglected opportunities. He felt like some antag- 
onized animal, too weak to fight against a dread 
enemy alone, and this dread enemy, death. 

The hours crept on. Philip, kneeling by the bed 
and holding one of Lydia’s hands, bowed his head 
and prayed. Great beads of perspiration stood on 
his forehead as he murmured: “God, direct our 
feeble effort in administering the remedies aright. 
Spare, Oh, spare this precious one. Aid us in this 
fight against death. Spare her long enough at 
least that I may prove my love and devotion.” 

Occasionally, Aunt Rhue, the nurse, or Uncle Nat 
would tiptoe to the door and peep in, only to retire 
from Philip and his Gethsemane. 

At last, the crisis had come. All was confusion. 
Hurrying footsteps brought to the doctor and Philip 
all they had been instructed to bring at a given 


202 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


signal. Anxious faces watched every breath. 
Minutes seemed hours. Dawn began to approach, 
and, as the sun crept over Old Baldy and threw a 
faint ray of light over Lydia’s bed, there was a 
faint flutter of the eye-lids. Slowly, her eyes opened. 
A faint smile wreathed her lips. The doctor touched 
Aunt Rhue and put his finger to his lips and left 
the room. 

Death had been outwitted. The power of love 
had conquered and Lydia would live. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

The fever had left Lydia, after consuming nearly 
every particle of her vitality, but the doctor said, 
with a sly wink, that with good care, she would 
come around and be worth half a dozen dead girls. 
Everybody was relieved. It had been a terrible 
ordeal. For days, Philip watched and waited on 
Lydia until all danger had passed. Then, he told 
them that he must return to Bolton and finish some 
important business his uncle had entrusted to his 
care, but that he would return at the earliest period 
possible. But to Aunt Rhue, he said: 

“Let me know if Lydia asks for me, and I will 
come at once.’’ 

But Lydia never asked for him to come back. 
The little clipping irom:Tke Springfield Record that 
Roger Conn^olly had brought had kept her from it. 
For many days after Philip left, Lydia lay pros- 
trated from the ravages made by the brain-fever. 


LYDIA OP LEBANON 


203 


She was too fatigued and worn to care or think 
and could not clearly remember the incidents that 
led to her illness. She knew naught of how Philip 
and the rest had worked over her. 

The loyalty of Philip’s unspoken love that had 
through years of waiting been kept at bay was now 
poured out in silent thanksgiving, as he slowly rode 
out of sight of Lebanon and Lydia. No, he would 
take no advantage of her weak condition. He 
would give her plenty of time to analyze her heart. 
She must not be excited or worried. It was hard 
to leave, but he felt the necessity of returning and 
well knew how the office-work had piled up during 
his ten days’ absence. 

Day followed day, and still Philip watched and 
waited for some word that would call him back to 
Lebanon. Several times, he went to Alderson to 
see Si Newman and inquire about Lydia. She was 
slowly gaining, but very weak. For the first time 
in his life, Philip was at a loss to know just what to 
do; and on Lebanon, Lydia, like Philip, waited. 
Day by day, she would watch for the coming of 
Uncle Si and the Overland in hope for some mes- 
sage or the coming of Philip, but no word did she 
speak. Dreary days dragged by. The only break 
in the monotony, aside from the kindly neighbors’ 
calls and Si Newman’s semi- weekly visits, was 
Roger Connolly. An occasional magazine found its 
way from Philadelphia and her grandmother’s let- 
ters were full of solicitude for Lydia’s recovery; 
and so both Lydia and Philip waited. Uncon- 
sciously and without design on their part, they 
drifted and drifted farther apart. 

Out into the great, homey kitchen, they carried 


204 LYDIA OF LEBANON 

her and laid her on the roomy lounge by the window 
where the warm sunshine poured in. She rarely 
spoke or moved and, except for the yearning look 
in her large brown eyes, seemed immune from 
everything about her. The nurse hovered about 
her and Aunt Rhue was lovingly solicitous for her 
comfort, but all to no avail. 

In this exhausted state of her convalescence, her 
soul seemed sealed. She was conscious of her weak- 
ness, yet did not try to overcome it. Time passed 
on; the mist of exhaustion that had seemed to 
envelop her slowly dissipated, and Lydia asked to 
be taken out of doors. With Aunt Rhue’s assistance, 
the nurse carried her from her couch by the window 
to an easy chair on the piazza, where she would be 
bathed in the soft sunshine that filtered through 
the vines. She asked that they leave her and, 
when alone, wept for the first time, wept for the 
seeming neglect of Philip and the great sacrament 
of love that had been denied her. She shivered, 
drew the light shawl about her, dropped her head in 
her hands, and uttered silently one heart-agonized 
cry to the mother that had been denied her: 

“Oh, Mother, so safe, so secure, take me, oh, 
take me!” 

“I fear I startled you,” said the pleasant voice of 
Roger Connolly. “I never dreamed of finding you 
out of doors, but it’s jolly fine. Miss Lydia, and a 
pleasant surprise. As I climbed the hill road this 
afternoon, I wondered how much longer it would 
be before I could take you for a ride.” 

“O, thank you, but that is not to be thought of 
for a long, long time yet. Not until I am quite 
strong again.” 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


205 


The spell of the gentle, late summer warmth, 
with its invigorating gentle breeze lifted and played 
with her kin^ hair, and a faint blush crept into 
her marble-like cotmtenance, that made her look 
like the old Lydia again. Connolly took a seat 
near her and, tossing his Panama on the floor, 
asked : 

“Will it tire you if I sit and rest a while by you?” 

“Not at all; you are welcome.” 

This simple though dignified answer touched a 
strange chord in his heart. They talked of various 
pleasant subjects until Aunt Rhue came to help 
Lydia into the house. 

For a week, Lydia was helped to the piazza. 
One day, she slowly descended the steps and walked 
on to the flower-garden. As she came to the bench 
Philip had made for her so long ago, a flood of 
tender memories rushed over her. Wearily, she sat 
down and a cry escaped her : “Oh, Philip, my brother, 
where are you?” 

After this, her recovery was more rapid. The 
magnificent autumn weather made this period of 
her convalescence less tiresome. Her Grand- 
mother Filmore was making her annual visit and 
would leave on the morrow, and had tried hard 
to induce Lydia to accompany her and stop at 
some watering place to fully recuperate, but Lydia 
did not feel equal to it. 

Mrs. Filmore told Lydia that her grandnephew, 
Horace Van de Water, would meet her in Boston 
and be her companion on to Philadelphia. 

Lydia said but little. Finally, Aunt Rhue, after 
considering the situation, said: “Mrs. Filmore, don’t 
ye think Lyddy is erbout old emuf ter decide purty 


206 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


near what she wants ter do. Ther child is ez weak 
ez er rag yet. Better not pester her too much at 
present, long ez she is happy; an’ ez fer society an’ 
fashion, what does it ermount ter compared ter 
Lyddy’s health. Fer my part,” she continued, 
sharply, “I think it’s all fol de rol, any way, an’ 
hez purty nigh killed Lyddy ez it is.” 

“Sister Wilbur, did it ever occur to thee that thee 
was robbing thy grandchild of her rightful social 
advantages by influencing her to remain on Leb- 
anon? It is high time Lydia was thinking about a 
husband and a home of her own.” 

“Tut, tut, Mrs. Filmore, Lyddy is only er child 
yit. It would be cruel, even barbarous ter suggest 
sech er thing. My idee is fer her ter live quiet 
like on Lebanon till she is perfectly well, then she 
kin cut an’ choose fer herself. This ’ere rushin’ 
young girls inter society an’ throwin’ ’em at every 
eligible man in sight is, ter my way uv thinkin’, er 
wicked thing. More lives air ruined than made 
happy. Broken hearts air not easily mended an’ 
er bird with er broken pinion could never soar so 
high erg’in. Yer see, ma’am, it’s better to explain 
both sides uv this question ter Lyddy.” 

“Thou art going to extremes. Sister Wilbur; I 
know of nothing to explain.” 

“That is ther way with plenty uv mothers, ma’am, 
but don’t yer think often ‘an ounce uv explanation 
an’ love towards our children sometimes is better 
than er whole pound uv repentance an’ forgiveness 
when it’s too late?’ Fer my part, I believe in 
human kindness an’ that we too often fergit it. We 
git so busy in our plans an’ specifications that we 
air apt ter leave out ther sheet-anchor. An’ ter 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


207 


be plain with yer, ma’am, I believe ther beauty uv 
sunsets an’ mountains, an’ music uv birds an’ 
brooks, is what Lyddy needs at present more than 
art-galleries an’ concerts, fashion an’ dress. Not 
but what they air all right in the proper place an’ 
time.” 

Mrs. Filmore adroitly turned the conversation, 
but she thought to herself: “Just wait. Sister Wilbur, 
until I get my granddaughter again, and thy per- 
suasions will avail thee nothing.” 

At the same time, as Aunt Rhue went about her 
work, she murmured to herself: “No, no, too much 
excitement now might jest kill our leetle gal. We’ll 
try an’ keep her here until she is well an’ then she 
shall go ef she wants ter. God forbid thet Father 
er I would hinder her, but what she needs now is 
Lebanon. I think er leetle light work will be ther 
best medicine fer her mind, an’ fresh air an’ refresh- 
in’ sleep, with Brindle’s cream an’ fresh milk — 
that will be ther best panacea fer her frail body; 
an’ we’ll sandwich in er leetle good comradeship uv 
Rover an’ ther bees an’ shady nooks an’ her harp- 
music. Thet’s what Lyddy needs. An’ when she’s 
well, she shall have her own way. If it is ther city, 
well an’ good; but ef it’s Lebanon, all ther thees an’ 
thou’s could go ter grass an’ eat mullien.” 

Days slipped into weeks and there was little to 
disturb the peaceful quiet on Lebanon. Lydia 
rejoiced in the rich autumn and enjoyed the rare 
pleasure of roaming at will. The frost had spared 
her rich treasures of fern and flower deep down in 
silver beech hollow. Her strength had returned 
sufficiently that she was able to take her loved 
walks and occasionally she walked on to the woods 


208 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


back of the south pasture where the tinkle, tankle 
of Brindle’s bell kept the dairy herd together. 

Uncle Nat grew weaker daily and this increased 
the anxiety of both Aunt Rhue and Lydia. They 
seldom left Lebanon and entertained only the old 
friends and neighbors who, in passing, stopped over 
a few hours to refresh and rest themselves and 
team, before proceeding on their journey. Uncle 
Peter Phillips and Aunt Nabby came occasionally 
and, during Lydia’s illness and convalescence, her 
old friend, Lillian St. Clair St. Alban would drive 
over in Squire Granger’s old carryall and bring the 
babies. At such visits, Lydia was happy. 

One day, in glancing around Lydia’s room, she 
started up quickly and, putting her baby on the 
couch by Lydia, crossed the room and stood with 
clasped hands before the tiny ivory portrait of 
Lydia’s mother. Breathless, she stood in surprise 
and admiration; then, turning, asked Lydia who it 
was. 

“That is my mother’s picture, given me at my 
graduation.” 

Mrs. St. Alban commented on her beauty but 
said nothing, but when she left to go home. Aunt 
Rhue accompanied her to the gate. Then, with sim- 
bonnet well pushed back and folded arms. Aunt 
Rhue leaned on the gate and told her all — of the 
coming of Lydia’s mother and of the letter of 
explanation. 

“God be praised!” said Mrs. St. Alban. “Tell 
Lydia her mother was my dearest girl friend, and 
I arn the one mentioned in the letter. We were 
married at the same time. Strange, I never con- 
nected your name with Margaret’s husband’s, but 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


209 


there has been so much to distract one. I am sin- 
cerely glad that Lydia is the daughter of my precious 
friend whom I loved and have mourned for 
years.” 

“Wall, ye surprise me, Mrs. St. Alban, an’ we’ll 
talk this over erg’in an’ Lyddy will be delighted. 
Ther Lord is surely good. It seems thar’s alius 
somethin’ ter be thanl3ul fer an’ uv all things ther 
best is thet Lyddy’s been spared ter us. Did ye 
ever hear uv thet leetle verse thet carries so much 
comfort an’ peace ter people in sorrow an’ trouble. 
It’s somethin’ like this: 

” ‘We can not alius understand ther Master’s rule. 

We can not alius do ther tasks in life’s hard school. 

But we can trust, an’ with His help ter do them 
one by one. 

An’ when we can not understand ter say, ‘‘Thy 
will be done.” ’ ” 

‘‘That is beautiful, Mrs. Wilbur, and so true.” 

‘‘Yes, it’s ther hull thing in er nutshell, child. 
We can alius trust, but it’s mighty hard ter alius 
be able ter say, ‘Father, Thy will be done,’ an’ 
mean it. But Lyddy’s alius been er comfort ter us 
frum ther day she come ter us er leetle helpless 
innercent babe. Yes, ma’am, er real comfort.” 

As the carryall rolled away, Mrs. St. Alban waved 
to her from the back. 

‘‘Likely woman,” said Aunt Rhue, as she returned 
to the house, ‘ ‘but did ye ever ! W onders never cease. 
Wall, our boy was in good company any way.” A 
tear dropped on Lydia’s cheek as Aunt Rhue stooped 
and smoothed her hair and told her of Mrs. St. 
Alban’s story. 

‘‘Oh, Grandma! How good God is after all,” and 


210 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


Lydia, lying there so fragile in her white purity 
of soul and body, thanked God from whom all bless- 
ings flow. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

About this time. Uncle Nat gave up^ entirely. 
His weakness increased, and he would sit by the 
hour and read or listen to Lydia. He had so blazed 
the trail on the farm that the work went on success- 
fully, for Jake, who had shared his labors for years, 
reigned supreme as head man. 

Lydia would talk over plans with her grand- 
parents and then, in her quiet, gracious way, would 
impart them to Jake, who in turn would carry out 
instructions and hire extra help as needed. And 
still Philip did not come. 

Grandmother Fihnore was getting impatient for 
Lydia’s visit, but nothing would tempt her to leave 
Lebanon now. 

One evening, after Uncle Nat’s sudden illness 
that left his right side partially paralyzed. Si New- 
man dropped in to inquire about him. They were 
all in the large living-room, adjoining the room where 
Uncle Nat was lying. Lydia, to-night, took no part 
in the conversation, but sat quietly in her rocker 
near her grandmother. Slowly, she arose and en- 
tered the room where her grandfather was, then as 
slowly returned and crossed the room, sat down in 
an abstracted manner to her harp. Running her 
fingers lightly over the strings, she brought forth 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


211 


a sweet, low tone, almost human in tenderness. 
After playing a while, she arose with a quiver, drew 
the cover over her harp even as a mother would 
lovingly cover her child, and passed from the room. 

This was too much for Si Newman. He soon 
picked up his hat, and with his genial “good night, 
all,” went out. As he mounted the old sorrel mare, 
he said : 

“Gosh all fish-hooks, hellfire an’ brimstun 
Things on Leb’non air all criss-cross. Thunder’s ter 
pay somewhar er some how. Per there’s some- 
thin’ jest er gnawin’ right inter Lyddy’s heart, pore 
leetle gal! I’ve a good mind ter ask her erbout thet 
Roger Connolly. Seems like er likely chap, but 
yer kin never tell erbout these ’ere city chaps. Ef 
he’s foolin’ round Lyddy an’ pesterin’ her, by gosh, 
down goes his house, an’ in goes his winder. She’s 
ez good ez Calif omy gold, an’ I’ll stand by her, by 
gum, through thick an’ thin. It erbout made me 
cave in ter see Uncle Nat’s big, bright eyes foller 
every move she made, an’ him so helpless. 

“Then, thet air music she makes, wall, it erbout 
makes yer think uv yer heavenly home. By gosh, 
ev’ry time she plays lately, there’s er lump comes up 
in my throat ez big ez Eben Guy’s Adam’s apple, 
an’ nigh erbout shets off my wind. Hain’t hed thet 
same feelin’ before since Mother died. Git up, Nell, 
thar’s ther bull’s eye frum ther Traveler’s Rest, 
glimmin’ like er star through ther trees. I wonder 
whar in thunder thet Philip Strong is, traipsin’ 
erormd ther country when he’s needed ter home. 
Strange chap that Philip is.” 

The next morning, as Si Newman passed the 
Wilburs, he said to himself: “I’ll be goldarned ef I 


212 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


don’t jest go on ter Bolton an’ see ef thet Philip 
Strong hez got hum. He’s needed on Leb’non ef 
ever he wuz; Uncle Nat so sick, Aunt Rhue all 
tired out, an’ worried erbout ter death, an’ Lyddy 
lookin’ like er ghost an’ no more strength than er 
peewee. An’ thet city chap er traipsin’ up thar 
every whip-stitch er tanterlizin’ her, an’ I know it. 
Wan’t fer little Jersey Grey an’ faithful Jake Dan- 
vers, I dunno what would become uv ther Wil- 
burs, by gum, I don’t. Money don’t buy happiness. 

“Gad, it’s too tamal bad, jest ez they’d got ev’ry 
danged thing so convenient an’ citified like. Thar’s 
ther new house an’ new-fangled runnin’ water-gear 
ter turn on an’ off, an’ thet air big tin, coffin-shaped 
tub ter take er bath in, an’ them big piazzas an’ 
granite steps an’ some kind uv er rambunctious 
concern ter ram ther water frum crystal spring up 
ter ther house, an’ er dozen other things ter make 
’em comfortable an’ happy. 

“I’ve often ruminated why in thunder Phil Strong 
hez left Lyddy an’ ther rest ter drift like er boat 
without er rudder. Thar’s somethin’ crooked, by 
gosh, an’ Si Newman’ll move heaven an’ airth ter 
riddle out this ’ere pesky snarl. I’m sartin sure it 
hain’t like Phil ter shirk like this in time uv trouble.” 

“Hello, Phil! How air ye?” 

‘‘Why, Uncle Si, how glad I am to see you,” and 
Philip Strong left his desk and went quickly to meet 
Si Newman, with eager, outstretched hand. “This 
is a glad surprise. How are you? Come into my 
private office. Pardon me, Mr. Early, this is an 
old and valued friend from Mt. Lebanon. I will 
return shortly.” 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


213 


“All right, Strong, my business is not pressing. 
I’ll drop in again.’’ 

When they had entered the private office, Philip 
again took Si’s hand. “Well, Uncle Si, how are 
you and every one on dear old Lebanon, Aunt 
Rhue and Uncle Nat and Lydia and everybody and 
everything?’’ 

“Tut, tut, Philip, don’t go quite so fast. We’ll 
hev ter take things in sections like, I reckon,’’ and 
he hung his left leg over the right and pulled his 
beard in easy strokes. After a moment’s silence, he 
looked up and continued: “I’ll be goldamed, Phil 
Strong, ef I orter tell ye er blasted bit uv news. 
Why in thunder hain’t ye been up ter see fer 
yerself?’’ 

“Business, Uncle Si, business. Then, I have been 
away for six weeks on business for the firm and have 
only been home a couple of days.’’ 

“Wall, Philip, I guess I’ll hev ter fergive yer this 
time, an’ I’ll begin on ther head uv ther family. 
Uncle Nat. Ye know Lyddy’s sickness wuz er 
terrible shock ter Uncle Nat; fer she is ther apple 
uv his eye. Wall, he hain’t been very strong since, 
jest er failin’ gradual-like, an’, last Saturday week, 
he hed er stroke. His right side is paralyzed an’ 
ther doctor says another is liable ter come any 
time. Yer kin imagine erbout how Aunt Rhue is 
er holdin’ on. She’s er wonder, she is, but she’s 
er failin’ all right. 

“Ez fer Lyddy, she’s only er shadder, but loyal 
an’ true ter her old grandparents, smoothin’ out 
ther hard places an’ hummin’ eround like er bee, 
day an’ night. She tends her grandpa jest ez patient 
ez er lamb, an’ never er murmur out uv her. 


214 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


“I wuz er talkin’ ter her ther other night, an’ 
when I offered ter stay an’ sit up with her, she sez 
so pitiful-like: ‘No, thank ye. Uncle Si, but I pre- 
fer ter do it. You know how good Grandpa hez 
alius been ter me; but I thank yer an’ appreciate 
it very much.’ Then a tear rolled down her cheek 
an’ she said: ‘Uncle Si, don’t ye think it’s better 
ter do fer ther livin’?’ An’ I sez, ‘Lyddy, I do.’ 
Then she said: ‘O, Uncle Si, ef any uv my friends 
hev any tender thoughts er sympathy fer me laid 
away ter utter over my lifeless body. I’d rather 
they’d express them now. Uncle Si, like you, that 
I might be cheered by ’em while I’m erlive an 
need ’em.’ Then she said somethin’ erbout er plain 
coffin without er flower, an’ er funeral without er 
eulogy, than er life without the sweetness uv love 
an’ sympathy, an’ er lot uv other stuff erbout how 
she’d ruther hev her one leetle lilac posy er marigold 
while she wuz erlive ter enjoy it, than er bushel uv 
hothouse posies when she wuz dead, er some tamal 
thing like it, I disremember jest how she did say it. 
But ye kin draw yer own conclusions an’ imagine 
jest erbout how she feels. Pore leetle gal, she’s so 
thin an’ white, she fairly totters when she walks, 
but I must be goin’. I hev ter ketch ther train ter 
Alderson at 12:20, an’ I want ter git er posy uv 
some kind fer her ter chirk her up a leetle.” 

Philip sat white-faced and deeply concerned. 

‘‘Any word ye’d like me ter take ter Leb’non, 
Philip?” 

‘‘Yes, Uncle Si. Give them all my fondest love. 
Tell them I have just returned from Washington 
and Baltimore, and that I knew nothing of Uncle 
Nat’s illness; also, tell them I will see them soon. 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


215 


Good-by, Uncle Si,” wringing his hand, “I thank 
you for looking me up. But I wish you would go 
to dinner with me.” 

“Can’t do it, Philip. I must ketch thet train. 
Ye see I hed er little business thet called me Bolton 
way, so I thought I’d look yer up. Good-by, Philip, 
an’ good luck.” 

As Si strode along the street to the station, he 
muttered: “I guess I put er shot in his locker thet 
time. Of course, I had business Bolton way, er I’d 
not be here but God fergive me fer lyin’ erbout what 
Lyddy said. Stem cases need stem handlin’ an 
I’ll bet er tin dollar thet I’ve give Phil Strong 
somethin’ ter digest. Ther very devil’s ter pay 
somewhar, I’m sartin sure. Never saw er man git 
so chalky white before, but it sarves him right. 
Now the first chance I hev. I’ll sock it ter thet city 
chap.” 

As luck would have it, as Si was on the home- 
stretch from Alderson, he overtook Roger Connolly 
and offered him a lift. Young Connolly willingly 
accepted and swung himself up beside the stage 
driver. After discussing various subjects. Si shifted 
his quid, squinted one eye, and said : 

“See here, young man, I want ter ask yer er 
question. How’s Miss Wilbur terday?” 

“Very well, very well, indeed.” 

“Seems ter me ye must find it interestin’ like at 
Nat Wilbur’s er ye wouldn’t travel this ’ere hill- 
road quite so often.” 

“Yes, I must confess I do. I certainly enjoy an 
occasional visit with Miss Lydia; but I can’t see 
that it is any concern of yours where I go or what 
I do.” 


216 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


“Wall, my young friend, don’t fly off ther handle 
thet way er ye might regret it ; but there’s one thing 
I want yer ter know an’ thet is thet ye’re on ther 
wrong track ef ye think fer er single minnit thet 
Si Newman’s goin’ ter stand back an’ see er young 
chap like ye harass er leetle helpless gal like Lyddy 
thet hez er dyin’ grandfather, so ter speak, on her 
hands an’ er heart full uv worry an’ anxiety over it, 
yer mistaken.’’ 

“Well, I would like to know what it is to you. I 
rather think I will continue to visit Miss Lydia 
whenever I choose as long as she doesn’t object.’’ 

“Now, see ’ere, young man, yer want ter know 
what it is ter me, do ye? Wall, I’ll jest inform ye 
er leetle on thet subject. First, frum an honorable 
point uv view, fer she is er leetle, innercent body 
with not much pertection at present except her 
Uncle Si. An’ now I’ll explain er leetle more. Ye 
see, I cain’t shoot wuth er tin dollar, but I jest 
might accident’ly happen ter kill er little squirrel er 
a groundhog er a great big somethin’ thet carries 
eroimd er carkiss thet he calls er man. Wall, I 
most ginerally win er die in ther fracas an’ ye kin 
see fer yerself I’m quite much erlive. All I want ez 
fer ye ter mind yer P’s an’ Q’s an’ ef ye don’t. Si 
Newman’ll be ready fer yer.’’ 

At this. Si stopped his horses and young Connolly 
jumped down. As he disappeared around a bend 
in the road. Si exclaimed : 

“Gosh all fish-hooks, but I’m jest itchin’ ter git 
er grip on thet air chap. Yet, arter all, he seems 
like er likely sort uv feller. But he’s got his eddica- 
tion concernin’ Si Newman, all right. I know one 
thing, our Lyddy hain’t got much use fer him. 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


217 


Why, ef he made er proposal ter her, she’d drop 
him quicker ’n er hot pertater. But any one, with 
half an eye, kin see he’s blind, stayin’ crazy in love 
with her; but he’d better watch out.” 


CHAPTER XXXL 

The day after Si Newman’s visit to Bolton, Philip 
started by train to Alderson, thence by horseback, 
as the quickest way, to Lebanon. After tying his 
horse, he stepped quickly to the kitchen-door and 
found Aunt Rhue busily sealing some peach pre- 
serves. She dropped everything and, advancing, 
threw her arms around Philip with a glad cry; 

“Oh, Philip, my boy! I wuz sure ye would come 
ef ye knew Father wuz sick.” 

“You are right. Aunt Rhue. But how are you 
and Lydia?” 

“I’m all right, Philip, but Lyddy might be better. 
She’s erbout tired out, but never complains.” 

“Can I see Uncle Nat?” 

“Wall, Philip, I’ll tell yer ther truth. He hed er 
bad night, but is ersleep now. I’ll tiptoe in an’, 
ef he’s erwake. I’ll call ye.” 

Aunt Rhue returned and said: “He’s sleepin’ like 
er baby. Best not distiirb him, hed we?” 

“No, no, under no consideration. I can wait.” 

“Wall, Philip, ez I wuz sayin’, Lyddy ’s thet de- 
voted ter her grandpa, she’s erbout wore ter a 
shadder. She waits on him, she reads ter him by 
ther hour. She’s hed her harp moved into ther 


218 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


livin’-room an’ frequently plays him ter sleep. 
Sometimes, in ther middle uv ther night, ye can 
hear her playin’ thet soft, murmurin’ kind uv 
music — seems more like angel’s than er mortal 
touch. Et sort uv quiets him when nothin’ else 
will.” 

“Where is Lydia?” 

“She’s jest gone down ter crystal spring, Philip. 
Thar’s er leetle hitch somewhar in ther machinery 
thet sends ther water up ter ther house. She said 
she would investigate ’fore sendin’ ter Alderson fer 
er mechanic. She’s ez handy with er monkey- 
wrench ez she is with her harp-strings. She’s sort 
uv out er tune herself. She took er book erlong 
this afternoon an’, if I need her. I’ll toot ther dinner- 
horn. I’m all through now, Philip. Come out on 
ther piazza. Josey will clear away my muss an’ 
tidy up ther kitchen.” 

“Thank you. Aunt Rhue, but I will walk on down 
to Crystal Spring and return with Lydia.” 

Philip was concerned about Lydia. Loving hearts 
had exaggerated about her condition until he was 
nearly frantic. He went around the north side of 
the house and struck a bee-line for Crystal Spring. 
Crossing the road, he struck the old familiar orchard- 
path and went on and on. A rising breeze stirred 
the apple boughs above, and shadows sifted through 
their tilted branches. Mechanically, he walked 
along through the silvery orchard grass. The hum 
of m5niads of bees and other insect life, the slant- 
ing rays of stm on the fruit-laden trees, the fragance 
of wild flowers, the lowing of the cattle on distant 
hill, the cheep, cheep of near-by crickets — all were 
lost on Philip. He was so absorbed in deep thought. 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


219 


agonized for the suffering of those he loved, and 
wondering what he could do to smooth out the 
rough places. 

“I will do the best I can. She shall never suffer 
one instant through me, but how can I ever see her 
throw herself away on that aimless cad. Perhaps I 
can lighten her burden in some way or be a comfort. 
I can be a brother and stand shoulder to shoulder 
with her to the end.” 

As he entered Silver Beech Hollow, in the distance 
he saw Lydia, sitting on a rock, her elbow on her 
knee and her chin resting in the hollow of her hand. 
Old Rover was lying at her feet, an open book lay 
in her lap, but she was not reading. She sat star- 
ing into the farther deep woods. A simple dress of 
light, clinging material, trimmed with tiny bows of 
pale green ribbon, was vastly becoming. The wind 
had tousled her hair until it was bewitching, and 
that deep, far-away look in her eyes added to the 
expression. Her face was as colorless as marble ex- 
cept the cherry-red lips. 

The snapping of a twig caused Rover to rouse. 
This attracted Lydia’s attenton and Philip stopped 
short. Then, hastening toward her with a cry of 
gladness, he dropped on theground at her feet and 
caught her hands in his, 

“Oh, Lydia, my sister, my old sweetheart of by- 
gone days!” 

Lydia was da^.ed at the sudden appearance of 
Philip. 

“Lydia,” he cried, “speak one word of welcome. 
For God’s sake, tell me you are glad to see me.” 

Lydia smiled a wee, sad smile. “You are long 
in coming, brother.” 


220 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


Philip quickly released her hand. “Forgive me, 
Lydia. I have no desire to thrust my presence on 
you; but you are such a dream of loveliness I could 
bow down and worship you, my precious sister, my 
Lebanon queen.” 

She raised her hand and said: “Don’t, Philip, 
don’t, I beg of you. Please don’t add unloyalty to 
another to the crime of neglecting your old friends.” 

“Lydia! I do not understand what you mean, 
but I can bear it no longer. You must listen, even 
though you do belong to another, I will tell you of 
my love, then I will go away. I will never thrust 
my presence on you again, but, oh! I love you so, 
my peerless treasure; I love you so.” 

Lydia sat as one dazed. 

“I call God for witness,” said Philip, “that I did 
not mean to betray my feelings today, but the sight 
of you drove all propriety to the winds. Believe 
me, I have no desire to thrust myself or my love on 
you. I know you belong to another. When I 
heard how sick Uncle Nat was, I could not resist 
the temptation to use that for an excuse to see 
you. God! How I have longed for this hour.” 

“Philip, how strange you talk. Isn’t old Lebanon 
your home as of old? You know you are always 
welcome. Grandpa is sorry, I know, for the little 
tilt between you, and please do not refer to it. 
Dear Grandpa, I am so worried about him, and I 
am sure he will be delighted to see you.” 

“Well, Lydia, I am here, and we will allow no un- 
pleasant thought of the past to mar our visit, for to- 
morrow I return to Bolton.” 

“Why so soon?” 

“Well, there are several reasons. One of them is. 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 221 

if I had been needed or you particularly wanted me, 
you would have sent for me.” 

”0, Philip! Had I gone according to the dictates 
of my heart, I surely would have sent for you. 
Grandma and I have talked over the situation sev- 
eral times and she suggested we send for you, and 
Grandpa once wondered where you were. He told 
us before he was taken ill that he heard in Bolton 
you had gone away for a long, indefinite stay. 
That didn’t look as though you cared to keep in 
touch with Lebanon. When you ignored us for 
months, with never a line to tell us where or how 
you were, the months were long and weary, and I 
longed to hear from you or see you. Surely, Miss 
Montgomery would not begrudge a few crumbs of 
affection to the far-off mountain folk.” Lydia’s 
hand trembled as she ruthlessly stripped the fronds 
from a fern that grew near her, and her face was 
ashen gray. 

“You talk in riddles, Lydia. You and Aunt 
Rhue well know the distance could never be too 
great nor the night too dark to hinder my coming to 
your call, and why mention Miss Montgomery? 
She is nothing to me; never has been; never will 
be.” 

Lydia’s face blushed crimson. “Oh, Philip, don’t, 
I beg you. Don’t make me wish you had not come. ’ ’ 

“My God, Lydia, what do you mean! Again, I 
repeat. Miss Montgomery is nothing to me. In 
mercy, explain, and above all tell me you are free 
and that all this gossip about you and Connolly is 
untrue. Aunt Nabbie Phillips told me to-day there 
was no truth in it.” 

“Philip, you must know there is nothing but 


222 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


friendship between Roger Connolly and me. He 
has been kind and thoughtful while you have been 
absent, that is all.” 

Lydia, this is too good to be true.” But Philip’s 
countenance was sad with the sadness of one who 
was facing a great problem and his voice trem- 
bled as he proceeded. ‘‘If you are in earnest, Lydia, 
and I know you are, I have been the biggest block- 
head that ever lived, and, now, can you ever forgive 
my seeming neglect and forgetfulness of you? It 
completely unnerves me as I think of the long 
months wasted in trying to forget you, when my 
chances were fairly good to win the rarest treasure 
on earth to me. But everything looked against me. 
Bolton newspapers seemed to take delight in tanta- 
lizing me with every bit of gossip concerning you. 
I surely felt hurt when I read that you and Con- 
nolly drove to Bolton and spent the day and never 
a hint you were coming nor took a few minutes’ 
time to hunt me up.” 

Lydia sat with hands folded across her knee and 
looked away over Baldy way, and, without looking 
at Philip, said: ‘‘Have you finished?” 

‘‘No, dear, I may as well make a clean breast of it. 
I can see now where I have been a coward, but the 
thing that sent me off and kept me away so long 
was this.” He drew from his pocket a small book 
and from between its leaves drew forth a clipping 
and handed it to Lydia. It read: 

‘‘Rumor has it that Miss Lydia Wilbur, of Mt. 
Lebanon, the accomplished granddaughter of Mrs. 
Margaret Filmore, of Philadelphia, is engaged to 
Roger Connolly, Jr., of Philadelphia, son of Hon. 
Roger Connolly, the financier and railroad mag- 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


223 


nate, and that the wedding will take place this fall, 
and that Mr. Connolly and bride will spend the 
winter in Europe.” 

Lydia silently folded the paper and handed it to 
Philip; then, looking at him with tears in her eyes, 
she opened the book in her lap and placed a scrap 
of paper in his hand.^ This clipping contained the 
announcement of Philip’s engagement. 

She said: “Philip, believe me, I never went to 
Bolton with Roger Connolly, neither has there ever 
been the least hint of engagement between us. 
This is news to me.” 

“My God, Lydia! Who do you suppose has done 
this dastardly thing. One word of love never 
passed my lips to Miss Montgomery. I scarcely 
know the young woman. She is a fine character 
and a young woman of sterling qualities, but there 
has never been but one woman for me. Lydia, how 
could any one be so cruel as to try to blight our lives! 
That this explanation could have come before! But, 
thank God, better late than never. It matters but 
little now what we are thought to be, for God 
knows what we really are. Cheer up, sweetheart, 
all things have become as new. You are my peer- 
less love, the love of my boyhood, my manhood, my 
life. Let us try to forget the past and cease to search 
for the cowardly perpetrator who so nearly wrecked 
our lives. Let us rather be grateful that the victory 
is ours and that, in seeking for revenge, we are but 
even with the perpetrator. But by passing over and 
completely ignoring it, we can not help but be 
superior.” 

“Philip, whoever did this, simply ignored my 
dear Lebanon grandparents. They thought it 


224 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


sounded more imposing to mention Grandmother 
Filmore and sting us a little deeper.” 

“I am exceedingly sorry that Uncle Nat is sick, 
but it has been the means of revealing this das- 
tardly plot and wiping out with one master stroke 
the bitter enmity that was fast closing in on and 
rapidly separating us forever. When Uncle Si 
Newman dropped into my office yesterday and told 
me of Uncle Nat’s illness, I had a struggle with self, 
whether I should come or not. You see. Uncle Nat 
and I had a squabble about the ledge-lot, and then, 
too, it didn’t seem possible I could ever see you so 
taken up with another; but I feel like singing the 
doxology now. 

“Now, about the ledge-lot. If Uncle Nat was 
able, he could close a deal with the P. & O. any time 
for fifty thousand dollars; but Lydia, he will never 
be able. Uncle Nat is a very, sick man. Now, my 
precious one, can you, knowing all, pardon and for- 
give me. I know I have innocently caused you un- 
told suffering and I should have been brave enough 
to come to you and given you a chance to explain.” 

“Hush, Philip! We have both suffered, but we 
can afford to forgive.” 

Philip said nothing, but sat still as though fight- 
ing for self-control. Looking at Lydia, he said: 
“Yes, the victor should always be magnanimous. 
And, now, Lydia, come to me, my old-time sweet- 
heart, my love, my bride to be.” 

Lydia raised her eyes softened by the moisture of 
tears. “Dear old Philip, you have suffered too, and 
I fully understand now as never before. But, Philip, 
how should I know? You never told me that you 
cared for me more than for other girls. You never 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


225 


cautioned me of the men of the world. No, your 
nature was far too generous for that, too noble to 
Warn, but, Philip, you made a mistake. Perhaps 
you thought it better to let the little moth singe its 
wings a trifle in the glaring flame of others’ atten- 
tion that it might feel the burning sting of insin- 
cerity.” 

‘‘No, dear, I felt that deep down in your heart 
the chalice of love was waiting, only waiting to be 
stirred, to> be touched by the right love, and it must 
not be disturbed by me. You must have every 
opportunity to define it when the time came. God, 
how I fought for supremacy over jealousy as no 
man ever fought before! But I wanted you to be 
happy regardless of all else; you, the one I had 
adored ever since I used to tuck you in the old pung 
those cold, wintry mornings on Lebanon, when it 
was so cold the frosted breath would hang from old 
Bess’s nostrils like strings of tiny pearls. Yes, it 
was you who must be happy. No one but God 
knew what I suffered when you went to Phil- 
adelphia, and the night you were graduated, my 
whole being was filled with pride and admiration 
and love for you. I was there because you were my 
idol, not because I felt worthy. I had made up my 
mind ” 

‘‘Please don’t, Philip!” 

‘‘Yes, I must go on. I had made up my mind 
that Aunt Rhue’s flowers should seal my fate. If 
you ignored dear old Lebanon’s floral offering, I 
would steal out into the darkness and speed away 
home. I was determined that you, my little Leba- 
non sweetheart, should have no interruptions in the 
school of love. If you had found some one you 


226 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


cared for among your new associates, you should 
have time to thoroughly analyze your heart. 
Only God knows how my heart swelled with love 
and joy when I saw the wreath of simple wild 
flowers on your head and saw you bury your face in 
the fragrant white bloom of Aunt Rhue’s lilacs. 
That told the story, dear, and a great wave of hap- 
piness passed over me as I gazed on you, my queen 
of Lebanon.’' 

As they rose from the seat on the rock, Lydia laid 
her hands on Philip’s shoulder and, looking him 
shyly in the eyes, said: “I have ever loved you, 
Philip, only you, and if I have learned a bit of the 
world, it has only helped me to be broader of imder- 
standing and more charitable and liberal in forgive- 
ness. But, Philip, you have ever been my rock, my 
beacon light. When I was surrounded with people 
of wealth, education, talent, and those who boasted 
of birth and breeding, of travel, of luxury, my heart 
would sicken and I would long for Philip and Leba- 
non.” 

A deep flush crept over Philip’s face as he drew 
her hand within his arm and whispered: “God 
bless you, my darling, my precious wife to be.” 

Lydia smiled and said: “Oh, Philip, you are as 
deep in love as you are in wisdom.” 

Through the falling twilight, they left the hollow 
and entered the homeward path, with the low, sweet 
twittering of birds settling in their nests, the sounds 
of woods-life drifting to rest, and the sacred silence 
of love and happiness surrounding them. 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


227 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

Near the close of a beautiful afternoon, one of the 
dreamy afternoons that come late in autumn, when 
the slanting rays of sun drove shadows of its bright- 
ness through every crack and crevice, Lydia had just 
returned from Alden Center where she had been on 
an errand for Aunt Rhue. Philip was expected that 
evening by way of the Overland, for Uncle Nat had 
been failing rapidly lately and had come to realize 
fully the seriousness of his illness and seemed to 
want Philip near. The minister had been there that 
day, not the dear old family pastor, but a stranger 
who was supplying his place for a couple of weeks. 

Armt Rhue, foreseeing the approaching dark shadow, 
had felt in her Puritanic mind that something must 
be done to help Uncle Nat on his last journey. 
Not that she thought it would do him any special 
good, for she well knew what a staunch lover of 
piety and Godliness, tempered vdth justice and good 
will toward his fellow man. Uncle Nat had always 
been. Still she felt that it was her duty, but w^as 
sorely disappointed when a stranger came, for the 
pompous air of the Rev. Mr. Fletcher, wdth dis- 
arranged wig and stiff-starched shirt front, did not 
suggest the peace and comfort she had expected 
from Pastor Peabody. Uncle Nat was not spirit- 
ually benefited by the Rev. Mr. Fletcher’s prayer as 
he knelt by his bed, for, with the quickening of 
spiritual instincts in the dying. Uncle Nat could 
see that there was nothing in that empty prayer for 
him, for the gold-headed cane that the Rev. Mr. 
Fletcher worshipped was no rod or staff to help him 
through the dark valley. 


228 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


The tranquil, set phrases of hi^ cold, unsym- 
pathetic nature made him peculiarly unfitted to be 
the confessor of either the sick or the dying. He 
did his best to sooth “these poor worms of the dust," 
as he called the family. He asked the Divine Ma- 
jesty so far away to realize their necessity and come 
nearer, and to bless suitably the dying man. On 
leaving, he expressed the hope that Uncle Nat might 
be resigned to his lot, and, with great dignity, he 
took his hand and told him to be of good cheer, for 
he was in the hands of a merciful God. 

Uncle Nat, the gentle, tender, sympathetic nature 
that saw divine presence in everything, that had 
worshipped and reveled in this beauty and holiness 
every day of his life; he that had soothed and as- 
sisted the weak and helpless, that had rigidly lived 
as far as possible the creed of the commandments 
— this man about to enter the great mysterious un- 
known was far from being benefited by the minis- 
ter’s visit. 

But one thing had been gained. There would be 
a new topic for the afternoon tea-drinkings at Alden 
Center. Aunt Rhue had had the minister; for this 
little village ever kept up a lively interest concern- 
ing its neighbors. 


CHAPTER XXXIIL 

Uncle Nat Wilbur was a fine-looking man and, 
on this particular evening, his eyes gleamed with 
unusual brightness, with that look of untold suf- 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


229 


ering often seen in the eyes of wounded animals — 
too deep for expression, even a moan. 

His course in life had been a qiiiet, unostentatious 
one; his evenly balanced brain had often acquired 
for him the name of judge among his neighbors, 
and he was loved and respected by every one of 
them. 

Lydia, with her grandmother’s help had just 
changed his position and smoothed his pillow, when 
Philip entered the room. A smile hovered around 
Uncle Nat’s lips as he held out his hand and whis- 
pered : 

“Philip, my boy, I’m glad you’ve come. Lyddy 
has told me.” 

Philip’s voice trembled with emotion as he an- 
swered cheerily: “Thank you. Uncle Nat; I am 
glad to be here.” 

“Philip, I put Lyddy an’ her grandmother in yer 
hands.” 

“I accept them willingly,” Philip assured him. 

Uncle Nat smiled. “Thank God for that. I 
leave all of ye in His hands. He doeth all things 
well.” Then he motioned them to kneel, Lydia and 
Philip on one side and the loved and faithful gray- 
haired life-companion on the other. Laying his 
hand lovingly on her head, and the other on Lydia’s 
and Philip’s hands, he raised his eyes, smiled and 
said: “Father, I thank Thee.” 

As they arose from the bedside, they stood for a 
moment looking at Uncle Nat, a smile of heavenly 
radiance illumining his face. Then a faint whisper 
came: “Thy will be done,” and the gentle spirit of 
the noble man had met his heavenly pilot face to 
face. 


230 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


A suppressed sob from Lydia, as she slipped again 
to the floor, aroused Philip and Aunt Rhue. Aunt 
Rhue laid her hands on Lydia’s bowed head and 
smoothed her hair as of old; then, motioning^ to 
Philip, she left the room. Philip knelt by Lydia’s 
side and said: 

“Uncle Nat is sleeping, Lydia. Won’t you come 
with me to Aunt Rhue. She needs us.’’ 

Silently, they arose and left the room. 

As Si Newman walked through the door of Dave 
Mile’s grocery the evening before Uncle Nat’s fun- 
eral, he was greeted on all sides with a hearty wel- 
come, for Si was ever a welcome visitor. 

“Wall, Si, what’s ther latest?’’ asked old Abe 
Barum. “I’m glad yer dropped in before I left. 
Now, fer goodness sake, do tell us all erbout Nat 
Wilbur’s funeral an’ buryin’ termorrer, fer I s’pect 
ye know all erbout it.’’ 

“Wall, I guess ye hev struck ther right man. 
Uncle Abe, fer I’m ther chap ez kin tell ye.’’ Push- 
ing his hat well back. Si resxuned: “What do ye 
want ter know fust ? But I s’pose there’ll be plenty 
uv questions ter answer all erlong ther line by ther 
looks uv yer eager faces. It’s er ’mazin’ pity yer 
hev sich ’quisitive opinions fer yer dead neighbor, 
but sail in.’’ 

“Wall, Si, things air so unusual on Leb ’non, it 
makes er feller want ter know ther truth uv it,” 
said Abe Bamum, spokesman for the crowd. “They 
tell me thet Uncle Nat’s will hain’t goin’ ter be read, 
nor is his corpse ter be exposed at ther funeral, an’ 
thet they’re not even ergoin’ ter take him ter ther 
church. Hain’t thet emough ter stir up ther com- 


LYDIA OP LEBANON 


231 


munity and make folks ask questions? I tel ye, 
it’ll be disapinting, Si, disapinting. Ye know it’s 
been er long time since we’ve bed er funeral thet 
ermounts ter anything, an’ ev’rybody wuz expectin’ 
ter go to his’n, an’ I tell ye it’ll be disapinting. 
Why, ev’rybody ’s talkin’. Si. Cain’t yer do some- 
thin’ ter change ther plans?” 

“Wall, I’ll be goldamed, ef I wuzn’t expectin’ 
somethin’ uv this kind. It’s highty tighty when 
yer born, highty tighty when yer married, an’ highty 
tighty when yer die. Good Lord o’ massey, Abe, 
folks hain’t no right ter feel bad erbout other folks’ 
idees erbout funerals. This ’ere’s a free country, 
boys, er free country since 1776, an’ I guess Uncle 
Nat’s folks hez er right ter ther own way erbout his 
funeral. But I want ter tell yer right ’ere thet 
Uncle Nat looks jest beautiful. Yes, siree, a better- 
lookin’ corpse I never see, so I’ll jest set yer minds 
ter rest on thet subject — thar’s nothin’ ther mat- 
ter with Uncle Nat thet’s keepin’ ’em frum exposin’ 
him funeral day. 

“Ef ye want ter see Uncle Nat, jest go up ter- 
morrer momin’ an’ I’ll be on hand ter gratify yer 
curiosity. I happen ter know how ye got yer gossipy 
news. ’Twas because Betsy Ross an’ Aunt Patty 
Baker didn’t git ter see Uncle Nat at eight er’clock 
in ther momin’. They wan’t ready fer strangers 
ter view him till they’d got er little used ter ther 
sorrow uv partin’ from him themselves; so they 
refused. I heard they wuz so mad they jawed all 
ther way back ter Alden. 

“’Nother thing: when they wuz told, arter much 
quizzin’ thet thar wuz to be no shroud, they held 
uo ther hands in horror an’ ther tongues wagged 


232 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


harder’n ever. ’Twas a pity, they said, thet er man 
like Uncle Nat hed ter be laid out in his own clo’s, 
when his folks hed plenty uv money ter buy er hand- 
some shroud. I jest happen ter know all erbout it, 
fer I wuz ther identical chap they interviewed on 
thet occasion.” 

“But, Si ” began Uncle Abe. 

“Ye jest shet up, Abe Bamum, till I git through. 
Then ye kin wag yer tongue till termorrer’s milkin’ 
time. Ye asked me ther questions an’ yer goin’ ter 
git ther answers with intrust. Ef ye want ter know 
anything erbout true sorrer an’ death on Lebanon 
I kin tell yer they’re sad, boys, sad. Thar’s one 
thing sartin, they’re followin’ Uncle Nat’s direc- 
tions ter ther letter; so don’t blame ’um. Ye all 
know Nat Wilbur alius did his duty by ev’ry dum 
thing he come in contact with, let it be er human 
bein’ er animal, bird uv ther air, er even an insect. 
I know yer cur’us, boys, but ye jest better let Uncle 
Nat’s mem’ry alone. Don’t mar it by any onpleas- 
ant remarks. Ef ye want ter see him once more, 
don’t wait fer ther funeral. Did any one of ye, er 
any one ye know uv, ever go to Nat Wilbur fer er 
favor er advice an’ come erway without it? Jest 
speak up.” 

“No, Si, no,” came from every mouth. 

“Then shet up.” 

“Yes, Si, but ye hev ther inside track. Ye know 
ey’rything. Why, ye even hed ther privilege uv set- 
tin’ up with him an’ seein’, an’ bearin’ ev’rything 
goin’ on.” 

“Wall, boys, ye needn’t envy me thet, fer it wuz 
tough emough, but I hope I’m er better man inside 
fer it, an’ I want ter tell yer one thing, ef ye’d git 


LYDIA OP LEBANON 


233 


eround er leetle more an’ be er leetle more neighbor- 
like, ye wouldn’t pick so many flaws in ’em when 
they come ter die. I reckon we’d all act an’ talk 
er leetle diflBrunt ef we cud jest see ourselves ez 
others see us. We wouldn’t draw so many dum 
critical conclusions erbout our neighbors. Now, er- 
bout Uncle Nat’s bein’ laid out an’ buried in his 
own clo’s, thet’s nothin’. Wuzn’t Abraham Lin- 
coln buried in his clo’s — one uv ther best men God 
ever let live! Better go up termorrer ’fore ther fun- 
eral, boys; Uncle Nat looks ez natural ez if he wuz 
ersleep.” 

“Si, ye fergot ter tell us erbout ther will. Do ye 
know anything erbout it?” 

“Wall, ef I do, I didn’t git it by hangin’ eround 
ther grocery an’ post-office an’ tavern. See here, 
boys, le’s drop this, but thar’s one thing sure: we 
cain’t run Uncle Nat’s funeral nor ther hull uni- 
verse ter suit ourselves, fer ther Lord A’mighty an’ 
Aunt Rhue hez er hand in thet, an’, furthermore, 
ye don’t need ter swap this gossip, nor nod yer heads 
nor wag yer Baptist nor Methody tongues, fer Uncle 
Nat’s safe,” and Si shifted his quid, wiped his mouth 
with the back of his hand, and left the store. 

But his homely expressions of sympathy and 
loyalty to his dead friend had subdued their ardor 
for news, and, after making arrangements for a visit 
in a body to Lebanon the following morning, they de- 
parted for their homes, one by one. 

As Si wended his way back to Lebanon, he said 
to himself: “Gosh all fish-hooks, I cud hev thrashed 
ther hull gossipy crowd. Why, ther hain’t er 
womankind, widow er old maid in ther hull uv 
Alden Center thet kin hold er candle ter ther gossip 


234 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


uv men. They didn’t know all I overhead ’fore I 
stepped in.” 

No person rendered more loving service on Lebanon 
than did Si Newman. He watched and worried 
and would even have scolded if it had been nec- 
essary to relieve Lydia and her grandmother of 
every care. 

Across the sun-kissed, withered grass, in the old 
South Church graveyard, they carried the precious 
burden of all that was left of Uncle Nat. The deep 
tolling of the bell had brought together the villagers 
who were not able to climb the hill to Lebanon, 
and now they tenderly laid to rest, beside the 
myrtle clad graves of those he loved so well. Uncle 
Nat. Aunt Rhue’s face quivered as she listened to 
the last service; but the loving arms about her, both 
of Lydia and Philip, reassured her that she was 
not alone. As they tenderly led her away, she 
turned her head and looked back for a last pitiful 
good-by and whispered: “Thy will be done,” but 
the way was not easy. Lydia kissed the wrinkled 
brow and Philip drew her tenderly to him. This 
simple act of humanity soothed the burdened soul 
of Aunt Rhue. 

The late afternoon sun lay in patches across the 
graves and a gentle breeze stirred the branches of 
the trees, making soft light and shadows across their 
path as they began their homeward journey. 

If they had chanced to look into Aunt Rhue’s 
face, they would have seen her noble self-con- 
trol, stirred by deep emotion, for had she not 
come home for the first time in many years, 
alone? 

As they ascended the broad piazza-step, she 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


235 


turned and looked far across the meadows toward 
old Baldy where the sun was lying warm and bright 
on its farthest peak. Then, a look of peace settled 
on her face as she turned and entered the house. 
Lydia helped remove her wraps; then went on 
through the house and out the kitchen-door. Then 
on down the path to the grape-arbor that Uncle 
Nat loved so well, and, dropping down on the bench, 
buried her face in her folded arms. Later, she was 
aroused by a firm step and Philip gently touched 
her brow with his lips. 

“vSupper is waiting, dear. Will you come 
in?” 

That evening, in the soft glow of an autumn 
moon near its full, Philip, sitting near Aunt Rhue, 
laid his hand on hers, and, with Lydia hovering 
over, told her of his love for Lydia and how he 
wanted to make her his wife. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

There are people, when aroused to the fact that 
they have committed a crime or wrong, who are 
willing to acknowledge it. Hence, the afternoon 
following Uncle Nat’s funeral, a boy rode up to 
the Wilbur home and handed a letter to Lydia, who 
was sitting on the doorstep. “No answer,’’ the boy 
said, and immediately rode away. Lydia turned 
the envelope over and examined the seal. The 
writing looked familiar, but she could not remember 
the writer. Mechanically, she opened it and drew 


236 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


forth the letter, still puzzled. After glancing at 
the signature, she read; 

‘ ‘ Dear Miss Wilbur : 

“Here I am, all done up in bandages and splints, 
the result of a nasty fall from a ledge of rock. I 
have just been reading The Alder son News and 
learned of the death of your grandfather. I will 
waste no words, but can truly say I am sorry, sorry 
for you in your grief, but far more sorry and deeply 
humiliated for my own cowardly self, and I am 
wondering now if you and Philip Strong can ever 
pardon and forgive me. 

“I loved you, I thought, as truly and honestly as 
was possible, and in this state, I felt that love like 
mine must be rewarded in time. I tried, as you 
know, every honorable way to win you; but, when 
that failed, I resorted to a hideous, wicked way of 
separating you from what I could easily see was 
your loyalty to Philip Strong. My face bums as 
I try, with pen and ink, to right the great wrong 
I did to both you and Strong. I had inserted in 
the Bolton papers that you and I spent the day 
there together. It was I, when I knew that Strong 
was far away, that sent the lie to the same paper 
that you and I were engaged. It was I that sent 
to the Springfield paper the announcement of 
Philip Strong’s engagement to Miss Montgomery, 
which I showed you, but I did not show you where 
she denied it in the next issue. 

“I have made a clean acknowledgment. Do with 
me as you think best. Do not spare me, but forgive 
me for intmding on the sacredness of your sorrow. 
I could not rest until I had let you know the enor- 
mity of my crime, and thus try to make amends 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


237 


and heal the breach in your friendship for Strong. 
One word of forgiveness will ease the troubled 
conscience of 

“Roger Connolly.” 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

It was ten days after the funeral. Ever5d:hing 
had settled back into its old quiet way. Philip had 
gone to Bolton on business for Aunt Rhue and also 
to adjust his own, and to make plans for several 
weeks’ absence. 

The day was a most perfect one. The frost, the 
night before, had freshened the air and added to the 
beauty of tree and shrub. After dinner, Lydia 
threw a light shawl about her and, telling her grand- 
mother she was going for a walk, left the house and 
followed the path to Crystal Spring. Here, she 
paused long enough to drink from the home-made 
cocoanut-dipper that hung by a string to a beech 
sapling. 

She passed Silver Beech Hollow and kept on and on 
back into the deep, cool shade of the forest; back 
where the shadows lie silent; back where all voice 
of hmnankind was left far behind, where no sound 
save the crackle of the twig or dead falling leaf, 
or the note of some bird late in leaving for the 
sunny southland, could be heard. 

Lydia seated herself on a fallen tree and gazed 
around her. The dear old woods, every tree was 
familiar. They seemed like old friends welcoming 


238 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


her home. She laid her wrap on a limb and rested 
her tired head. Her eyes burned with the heat of 
unshed tears, but the dull look was gone. This was 
to be Lydia's last trip to the deep woods that year, 
and a yearning longing had been in her heart all day 
to come. 

Here, she could think undisturbed, and there was 
so much to think of. Her plans were so unsettled. 
There has been such a change in the last few weeks. 
She seemed to find no solution suitable to the many 
problems that came rushing to her tired brain. 
First, her Grandmother Wilbur must not be left alone 
in her sorrow and loneliness. Her Grandmother 
Filmore’s insistent letters from abroad that she 
join her at once in Naples and spend the winter 
there, annoyed her. The great, tender thoughtful 
love of Philip was to be considered. There was the 
trip far beyond Alden to see Roger Connolly and 
assure him of forgiveness, for it seemed better to go 
direct to the root of the matter, than to send a letter. 
Perhaps, Philip would go with her on his return, 
after she had made known her wishes and the reason. 
She was ready to forgive, since she was sure of this 
great love, the love of Philip who would henceforth 
shield and protect her. 

She raised her eyes and said: “O, Father, keep 
me. You are so necessary to my happiness. Help 
me to be a comfort to dear Grandma and Philip. 
Forgive me for my blindness in trying to plan my 
own life instead of just leaving it in Thy dear hands. 
Just guide me and help me to lay aside all my am- 
bitions for the future. Help me to be a comfort. 
Bless Grandma and help me to help fill Grandpa’s 
place. It is hard, but again I beg Thee to blot out 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 239 

all the ambition and desire to answer the calls from 
the great outer world.” 

^ She raised her head and saw not far away, like a 
bit of fallen sky, tilting back and forth on a slender 
limb, a blue bird. All the loneliness fled from her 
heart and she burst into tears, the floodgates of 
relief, the first she had been able to shed. 

“You dear little sunshine, why are you so late in 
leaving fbr your loved Southland ? I know you just 
stayed to bring this message of relief to my burdened 
heart.” 

The tiny bird tilted its head first to one side and 
then to the other, as if it really understood, and, 
giving a chirp of farewell, winged out of sight. 

Lydia had not confided to Philip the letter she 
had received from Roger Connolly. It had been 
laid aside and practically forgotten during the last 
few days. As Lydia recalled the events of the last 
week, the receipt of Connolly’s letter came vividly 
before her and the thought of what she should do. 
She realized fully how nearly it had lost for her 
both Philip and his love, that love so lasting, so 
true. Then came the thought : How would Philip 
take it, if she told him all? Philip, with his high 
ideals of manhood and honor, would he, like she, 
in the fullness of restored confidence and love, be 
willing to overlook and forgive? She would take 
the chances and, on Philip’s return, would show him 
the letter. It was no time to conceal anything. 
Too much had already been lost. Here was an op- 
portunity not to be neglected. She would live up to 
the high ideal she had ever fostered. She would 
raise still higher her standard of integrity and honor. 

It would be a good lesson to Connolly. She would 


240 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


teach him there was something more than flattery 
necessary to satisfy the heart, something that could 
turn jealousies into balm for wounded pride. She 
would teach him that a country-bred girl could be 
magnanimous. But it must be done in a quiet, dig- 
nified way that would corroborate the life she had 
lived when with him. 

Yes, on Philip’s return, she would place in his 
hand the confession and tell him her plan. If he 
approved it, they would go together and prove to 
Connolly he was forgiven. Suppose Philip did not 
approve of her plan — what would she do ? She 
would go alone, if need be, or, better still, take 
trusty Jake Danvers with her. 

The blessed quiet of the deep woods had helped 
her solve her problem. She arose from her seat and 
glanced around. Her stay had been long and un- 
noticed. The shadows had deepened. She drew 
her shawl about her and quickly departed. 

The short October day was drawing to a close. 
Too late to read or sew, too early for a light, Lydia 
pushed aside her sewing-basket and crossed to the 
window and looked out. The large beech and 
maple trees lashed their branches from the fury 
of the winds singing through them. A few feathery 
snowflakes came floating lazily down, dancing 
hither and thither. The f5e crackled in the big open 
fireplace as the wind whistled down the chimney- 
tunnel. 

The distant toot of Si Newman’s horn warned 
Lydia there was a message for some one at the house. 
Hastily throwing a warm wrap around her, she hur- 
ried toward the door. On opening it, she ran 
full tilt into Philip. 


LYDIA OP LEBANON 


241 


^ “Philip Strong, where did you come from? Uncle 
Si tooted his horn a moment ago, and I was just 
going to see what it meant.” 

“Well, dear, it simply meant nothing this time. 
I coaxed Uncle Si to wait until I had about reached 
the house before he gave his warning. At this 
moment. Aunt Rhue entered the living-room. 

“Per land’s sake, Philip, whar did yer come frum; 
but ye air welcome at any rate, fer it’s been lonesome 
on Leb’non without ye.” 

“Thank you. Aunt Rhue. I am glad to be missed, 
but come to the fire and see Lydia’s gift, as well as 
yours.” 

He took from his pocket a tiny box and drew forth 
a circle of gold, set with one large clear lustrous 
pearl, which he slipped on Lydia’s finger. Then, 
he put into Aunt Rhue’s hand a small box, saying: 
“No one is to see this until you have seen it first. 
Please do not open it here.” 

Aunt Rhue, standing in the glow of the ruddy 
blaze, placed her hands, one in each of theirs, and 
said: “Praise God from whom all blessings flow.” 

In the privacy of her own room. Aunt Rhue opened 
the little box and there, smiling up at her, was the 
portrait of Uncle Nat. 

As Lydia and Phillip drew near the engineer’s 
camp, they quietly slipped from their horses. Philip 
tethered them to a couple of saplings, and they 
advanced and inquired of a man who was cleaning 
potatoes for supper, where they could find Roger 
Connolly. 

The man looked up from his work and said : “An’ 
be jabers, if yez folly yer nose, you’ll find the young 


242 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


Spalpeen round the other side ov the cabin feminst 
a couple of threes.” 

As they turned the comer, according to directions, 
they came upon a cot beneath the trees, on which 
Roger Connolly was lying with closed eyes. The 
snapping of dead branches aroused him, and, on 
opening his eyes, he saw his visitors. He was 
shocked at the sight of them advancing with out- 
stretched hands. 

His eyes glistened as he exclaimed : “Hello, Gad, 
but this is splendid of you both,” and he took their 
hands and bade them welcome. 

“Miss Wilbur, you’re a regular trump, and as for 
Strong, I can’t begin to thank him. I want to 
assure you I am not worthy such magnanimous 
treatment.” 

Philip said a few polite words in reply and they 
immediately turned the conversation to his acci- 
dent and the extension of the P. & O. Railroad. 
After visiting a while, Connolly called to the cook 
to bring some refreshments. After partaking, and 
shaking Connolly heartily by the hand, the guests 
departed, happy in living the Golden Rule. 

After they were gone, Connolly covered his face 
with his hands and said to himself: “By gad, that 
was a whopping big thing for them to do. I don’t 
believe I ever could have done it. My, oh, me, but 
Lydia Wilbur shows her old Puritan blood all right, 
and Strong is not far behind; but she was superb 
in her quiet, gentle way. Why, I never loved her 
half so much as I do this very moment, but I must 
cut it out. Strong is the man for her. No one can 
deny their love for each other, and no one but them- 
selves will ever have any conception of what it cost 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


243 


them to do this thing for me. Why, it makes me 
feel like a baby. It has actually taken every bit of 
strength out of me. It was a great thing for her 
to do. God bless her!” 

After leaving Connolly, the subject was never 
mentioned, and Lydia went home with a happy heart. 

It was late in the spring. Before an open fire- 
place, with its crackling, ruddy blaze, Lydia was 
sitting in her little rocker, her book lying in her 
lap. Her hand was raised to ward off the light 
from the fire’s blaze. 

Philip had drawn his chair near her and v/as look- 
ing dreamily into the fire. The rain and sleet dashed 
against the windows and there was a roar in the 
chimney that told of the terrific wind raging with- 
out. The firelight was so bright that the candles 
had not been lighted. 

They both sat quiet, each vT*apped in thought 
so deep as to be seemingly oblivious, one of the 
other. At last, Philip laid his hand lovingly and 
reverently on Lydia’s and said: 

“How long, Lydia, must I wait to claim my bride? 
Can’t you decide to-night? You know I have been 
patient, dear. The winter is nearly over.” 

“Philip, please do not ask it of me at pre- 
sent. You know I have planned for years to teach, 
and, regardless of Grandmother Filmore’s forbidding 
it, and of your dear love, I feel I must fulfil my ambi- 
tion. No, no, Philip please do not try to dissuade 
me. I will briefly give my reason. First of all, you 
well know I can not leave Grandmother for a long 
time, and, second, it would be unjust, all wrong, 
to tie you up to Lebanon after all the hard work 
and saving and planning, you have done and the 


244 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


sacrifice you have made. It would not be right, 
dear. You are in line for a splendid, successful 
career. Just think of the advantages you have with 
Judge Palmer. No, Philip, do not tempt me. 
Then, there is the opportunity for me to take charge 
of the French and Latin classes in the Seminary, at 
Alderson, and the music lessons I could give.” 

‘‘Yes, Lydia, all you say may be true; but in the 
meantime, what is to become of Aunt Rhue and 
me? No, dear, marry me, and I will give up all and 
settle here on Lebanon, or take you and Aunt Rhue 
to Bolton, just as you please.” 

‘‘Please, Philip, do not try to misunderstand me. 
We ought to be able to give up each other with a 
willing spirit for a year or two. You know we are 
young, and we will allow only the purest and sweet- 
est harmony to exist between us. A living love in 
anticipation, dear, ought to be unspeakably prefer- 
able to a dull gray existence of regret. Ours shall 
be a pure love, beautiful and expressive. You do 
not know what you have always been to me, Philip ; 
your tender watch-care has been a benediction so 
pure, so simple, so unaffected. For this precious 
love, dear, the flowers seem sweeter, the dewdrop 
clearer, the sun brighter. I feel it, in fact, in every- 
thing. At times, when I am alone, it seems like a 
soft tinted veil enveloping me, a veil drawn from 
the' holiest of holies, and exposing to view its inner 
shrine, so bright and pure. 

‘ ‘The time will soon pass. Human cares will seem 
less arduous and the commonest duties will cease 
to be irksome. We shall both be so busy that time 
will fly, and then we shall be satisfied. We will try 
to be real burden-bearers through Him who ever 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


245 


strengthens. The call is so loud, and the need is so 
great, for just such personalities as yours. Don’t 
worry about Grandma. I shall see to it that she is 
well cared for. Aunt Mollie Devers will come and 
live here, and Josey’s willing hands will do the work 
and watch over them. I shall not be far away. 
Fifteen miles is a short distance and Uncle Si will 
tell me of Lebanon every other day, and twice a 
month I shall go to Bolton for my music and to see 
Philip Strong.” 

”0, Lydia, how can you put me off when we have 
both suffered so?” 

“Never mind, Philip, we are only passing through 
the refining process. We are young, and, as I said 
before, the time will pass quickly. Listen, Philip, 
dear. You know our lives are what we make them. 
If we are willing to work and climb, we can write 
our names at almost any h.eight we choose. Please 
do not ask me to be ambitionless and stay at the 
bottom when I have planned so for years. Have you 
ever noticed ‘that the ones whose names live past 
the grave line are the ones who have worked’ — 
have done something worth while? Some carve, 
some compose, some paint great and beautiful pic- 
tures, yes, wonderful pictures, and some write books, 
good books, with clean, wholesome morals, books 
that have influenced people, helped change their 
natures, have helped make them better for the 
reading. 

“We must not be selfish. God has mapped out 
our lives along special lines, and we must not shirk. 
I have often felt so shut in, or rather so shut out 
from doing any good, but, after all, Lebanon is the 
dearest place in all the world to me. I know that 


246 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


nature, with lavish hand, has granted me what a life 
beyond the hills could never satisfy. Then, there’s 
my book, Philip, the little book I am writing. You 
did not know, dear, of this message I am hoping 
to give to the great, wide world beyond. I believe 
there are many who are hungry for even a pen- 
glimpse of our dear mountain life; so I have decided, 
during my vacation time, while you are out in the 
great, busy world carving for yourself a reputation, 
I will devote the time to giving a message to my 
sisters beyond the hills, sisters whose lives run in a 
sort of a groove. I had thought not to tell you 
at present, but it seems imperative that you 
know.” 

“Lydia,” said Philip, his eyes shining, “this is 
worth while. Stick close to your idea of giving a 
glimpse of real life to the world beyond. Brush all 
obstacles away. You are right, dear. Send a mes- 
sage as you describe and show a clamoring people 
what you can do. Borrow no set phrases, be your 
own teacher, your own true self, write,, in your own 
plain, simple way, of fields and woods, mountain 
and swamp, birds and bees, give sermons from stones 
and songs from running brooks. 

“I thank God that your life beyond the mountains 
has not spoiled you, my Lebanon Queen, but rather 
taught you to winnow the wheat from the chaff. 
It has purified and refined, only as experience can, 
and has given to you a heart of gold, a soul unsullied 
and pure. In your literary work, give a message 
that will not only satisfy but teach. But again I 
say, come to me, my wife to be.” 

“For shame, Philip,” laughed Lydia. “You 
tempt me. But no, no! Let me work out my own 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


247 


problem.^ Only a year or two at the longest, only 
a short time, dear.” 

“Lydia, you do not know what you are doing. 
Some day, the wall of your wild ambition will fall, 
the gate to its citadel fly open. Then you will 
admit me, dear; then you will be mine.” 

He lifted her hands and clasped them in both 
his own. They trembled in the strong embrace. 
Her lips quivered; she closed her eyes, then, as 
lightly as the fall of a rose petal, Philip’s lips 
touched her forehead, and he released her hands. 
She did not hear him go, so reverently did he leave 
her presence. 

“Oh, Philip! Always the same, always the same.” 
Long, she sat, reasoning with her heart. At last, 
she clasped her hands, and, from her lips, came the 
words: “I thank Thee for Philip; I thank Thee for 
love; make me worthy of such sacrifice.” 

Now her hungry heart called forth every vestige 
of womanly pride lest her ambitious courage fail. 
The situation was of her own choosing and now, 
what if the result of her determinations should be 
undesirable? She resolved she would bear it alone 
and as best she could. “No, I will not allow such 
a thought even to cross the threshold of my heart.” 

She was proud and happy that Philip had yielded 
to her wishes, and it stimulated her ambition anew. 
O, how hard she would try to prove to his dear 
heart that she was right. She would prove to him 
that a life well spent was heroism. Again came the 
thought, how could she live without him. He had 
always been such a comfort and now she felt afraid 
he might undervalue her love for him after this 
decided declaration of her independence. But she. 


248 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


too, had suffered. She had laid aside the crown of 
wifehood for the uncertain crown of laurel. But 
with this prayer of guidance, she was content : 

“The Lord bless us and keep us; 

The Lord make His face to shine upon us and be 
gracious unto us; 

The Lord lift up His countenance upon us and 
give us peace.” 

Some months ago, she would — before she had 
passed through the sacrificial fire — have taken her 
beloved and been satisfied. But not now. The 
deeper love had prevailed. The sacrifice had been 
made and she hoped Philip would succeed, would 
succeed to the extent that would eventually wipe 
out every vestige of objection her Grandmother 
Filmore had to their marriage. Her ambition for 
Philip exceeded that for herself and, if at times, it 
seared and pained her, she would murmur not. She 
would be brave, for Philip must have his chance in 
the world. She would fight on alone this fierce 
battle of withheld love, for by this time her heart 
had become a veritable battle-field. Yes, she would 
offer a gift of frankinsence on the altar of love and 
thereby blot out the bitter myrrh of regret. She 
felt happier to know that henceforth Philip’s heart 
would beat in unison with hers and thus more than 
ever cement the bond of love between them. After 
she was ready for bed, she still thought on, thresh- 
ing out problem after problem in regard to her future 
life. 

The fire burned low, the clock tolled off the hour 
of midnight, yet Lydia sat on, a solitary witness to 
the lateness of the hour. She had entered her 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


249 


Gethsemane. In her lap, lay the little worn Bible 
her Grandmother Wilbur had placed in her father’s 
hands so many years ago. She turned it over and 
over, again fingering it with reverence becoming 
the solemnity of the occasion; then she raised it to 
her lips and kissed the crimson-stained leaves, now 
faded to a dull brown, and said: “Help me to be 
true and pure and good.’’ She arose, strengthened 
in the beauty of renewed purpose. She would go 
forth with renewed determination. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

When Philip had been gone a day or two, Lydia 
confided her plans to her grandmother. After a 
few moments’ silence, as though weighing a great 
and mighty subject. Aunt Rhue looked over her 
spectacles and replied : 

“Lyddy, better think ther matter over careful- 
like ’fore ye decide. Don’t break ther boy’s heart. 
I’m erfraid yer don’t know how much Philip loves 
yer. Once, I said ter him, long ago, in fact, it wuz 
ther year he graduated, sez I: ‘Philip, ye air gettin’ 
erlong amazin.’ He smiled sadlike, an’ said: ‘Do 
ye think so. Aunt Rhue? Wall, it’s all due ter 
Lyddy.’ An’ when ye wuz sick unto death almost, 
he jest dropped ev’rything, jest sacrificed his busi- 
ness an’ shut up shop an’ come here an’ nussed ye 
like er baby. 

“I dunno ez I know how ter make it plain ter 
ye, but he’s jest devotion itself. He’s no whirlwind 


250 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


uv er lover like some, but it’s thar. Now, see here, 
child, ye cain’t fool yer old grandmother, an’ what’s 
more, yer own heart is ez full uv it ezer feggisuv meat. 
I know, cluld, yer think yer doin’ ther right thing 
by him, but it’s all wrong, all wrong. Yer goin’ 
ter hurt Philip’s feelin’s, too. Thar’s ther boy al- 
most ter ther top rung uv ther ladder uv success, an’ 
he’s arned it, too. Now, fer heaven’s sake, don’t 
yer cause him any more heartache an’ sleepless 
nights. The boy hez suffered emough. He’s climbed 
from the very foot, remember, nothin’ but er leetle 
orphan boy workin’ fer his board, an’ now arter 
all he’s gone through, ye air goin’ ter side-track 
an’ watch him waitin’ ter see which way ther 
balance will drop, whether it’ll be ther love side er 
ther ambition side. Think it over well, child. 
Don’t kill all his hopes an’ ambitions with one 
stroke. Ye must think this over calmly ’fore ye 
act.” 

Lydia’s voice trembled as she replied: “You are 
right. Grandma. Every word you say is true. 
Philip is noble and good and true, and I love him; 
but I wiU not alter my decision. Philip must have 
his opportunity unhampered by anything or any- 
body. He is young and ambitious and strong, with 
a cool, level brain, and he must and shall have every 
advantage due him. His business calls him far away 
from honie. He must be free togo. Hemust see more 
of the world, of life, of other women. I shall be true 
to him, Grandma, but Philip must have his chance. 
Do not think this is easy for me. Far from it; but 
again I say, I will not stand in Philip’s way.” 

Aunt Rhue had developed a remarkable degree 
of resignation in her bereavement and, if her voice 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 251 

trembled and her eye grew moist sometines, she 
smiled it all away. 

She was heard to remark one day: “I tell ye 
life is too short ter go erbont with er pall uv sorrow 
draped over yer countenance. It’s only castin’ 
er gloom over ev’rybody. I say, smile an’ ther 
world smiles with yer. Father didn’t believe in 
it any more’n I do. He alius said he didn’t believe 
in long-faced Christians, thet ther best Christian 
he ever knew was a whistlin’, smilin’ one, with er 
glad hand fer ev’ry occasion.” 

So she helped Lydia in every way possible, stifled 
every thought of separation and loneliness, and, 
when Lydia mentioned anything about being sorry 
to leave her, she would reply with a smile: 

“Don’t worry erbout me, Lyddy, child. When 
yer put yer hand ter ther plow, never look back. 
Jest keep an eye on ther furrer an’ it’s sure ter be 
straight. Too much worry an’ lookin’ back is like 
ter make er crooked row. Don’t do it, child, don’t 
do it. Ye know, Lyddy, by hist’ry et’s creepin’ 
on ter nigh three hundred years, wall, it’s over two 
hundred an’ fifty any way, since er handful uv 
men an’ women left England for conscience sake, 
so ter speak, an’ et wuz said uv them at thet time 
thet God sifted ther whole nation that He might 
send ther choicest grain inter ther wilderness. 
Wall, Lyddy, don’t ever fergit thet ye’re entitled ter 
thet ’ere sayin’, fer yer got ther blood in yer. Yer 
great grandfather, on both sides, an’ yer grandpas 
hed fightin’ blood an’ spilled it, too, fer ther cause 
uv liberty, ter say nothin’ uv yer own pa an’ grandpa. 
Jest keep yer heart an’ soul alius primed ter do 
right, an’ don’t look back. Jest chirk up. Times 


252 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


er passin’. Jest think uv ther pleasure we’ll hev 
readin’ yer letters an’ watching fer yer ev’ry Satur- 
day night, an’, la, child, it’s not fur. Why, ef I 
git ther least bit homesick ter see my sunshine. I’ll 
Jest run down ter Alderson with yer Uncle Si ter 
feast my eyes on yer. Then jest ter think uv our 
Lyddy er teachin’ them air outlandish languages. 
No, siree; ye stick ter yer track an’ keep lookin’ 
erhead.” 

Lydia slipped an arm around her and kissed her 
wrinkled cheek: “Dearest of grandmothers, always 
so brave and true. You are right. I will try and 
plow a straight furrow and try not to look back. 
I feel ashamed and humiliated when I think of your 
noble and brave courage and, if I have any, I shall 
not give all the credit to my grandfathers. If I am 
not mistaken, there were some loyal women among 
that crowd that came into the wilderness.’’ 

Philip was saddened beyond words when he and 
Lydia had their last interview. He submitted 
reluctantly to her wishes, but he was determined 
to accept his fate and find in success a solace for 
the bitter disappointment. 

The following morning found him on his way 
toward Bolton. He enjoyed the visit with Si New- 
man and many a bit of good homely advice did he 
receive from the old stage-driver. After reaching 
home and straightening out matters at the office, 
he remembered his promise to Lydia to write her 
Grandmother Filmore. It was no easy task to 
approach this woman by cpmmunication of pen. 
He was busy writing for a while and then he held 
up and read the following : 


LYDIA OP LEBANON 


253 


“Mrs. Elizabeth Fihnore, 

“Baden Baden, Germany. 

“Dear Madam: 

“This communication will announce my engage- 
ment to your granddaughter, Lydia Margaret 
Wilbur, with full consent of her grandparents, Mr. 
and Mrs. Nathaniel Wilbur. I have loved her 
from childhood. 

“Sincerely hoping this will meet with your ap- 
proval, I am 

“Respectfully yours, 

“Philip Strong, 

“Bolton, Vermont." 

In looking over her mail, Mrs. F^more failed to 
recognize Philip’s writing, and laid the letter aside 
until she had read the rest . But when she had opened 
and read Philip’s letter, her anger knew no bounds. 
She bade her companion leave her for a while, even 
sent her on some trivial errand, telling her to return 
in an hour. When she was alone she gave vent to 
her great displeasure. 

“The ungrateful child,’’ she filmed. “So this is 
why she refused to leave Lebanon. What shall I 
do? The very idea of her throwing herself away on 
that nameless country bumpkin, when she could 
have made a brilliant alliance with people of note. 
Lydia, thee shames me, even as thy mother did 
before thee. What can I do, with thousands of 
miles between us? But I must arouse and plan. 
Ah, I will plan for thy coming to me even here in 
far off Germany. A story that I am ill and need 
her will surely bring her at once. I am glad Lydia 
mentioned in her letter that there was to be a long 


254 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


engagement. That will help me out. Once I get 
thee, Lydia, here in the old world with all its old 
and unique attractions, I am sure there will be no 
more of this country infatuation. Talk about love 
and childhood! pooh! Lydia should be wooed and 
won in the good old chivalrous way, and I will see 
to it that she is. ‘Hope it meets with my approval.’ 
Not at all, Philip Strong, do I approve of thy at- 
tachment to my grand-daughter. Thee must give 
her up. Oh, Lydia, why does thee tarry so long? 
But I will write thee a letter that will tiunble this 
house of cards down and, as for Philip Strong, I 
will not notice nor acknowledge thy presiiming 
letter. How dare thee write such a letter to me!” 

The next mail carried a letter to Lydia. 

“My dear Lydia: 

“My only grandchild, here I am in far oif Ger- 
many alone but for my faithful companion. I am 
ill and need thee. Prepare for a journey and come 
to me at once. I feel thy presence would cheer and 
comfort me. Enclosed, find draft to cover expenses. 
I shall count the days as long until I behold thy 
dear face. I am sure thy grandmother will be glad 
to have thee take the trip. Kind remembrances to 
all on Lebanon. 

“Thy loving grandmother, 

“Margaret Filmore.” 

After reading the letter, Lydia wearily raised her 
hand and brushed back her hair; then she entered 
the kitchen where her grandmother was. Listlessly 
seating herself, she unfolded and read the letter. 

“Grandmother, what shall I do, for I simply 
can not and will not go so far away from you and 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


255 


Philip, and, if I can read correctly between the lines, 
this is a mere ruse to get me away from Philip. She 
must have received Philip’s letter telling her of our 
engagement and this is the result. What shall I 
do?” 

“Wall, Lyddy, don’t make up yer mind in sech 
a hurry; it’s er woman’s privilege ter change her 
mind ef she sees fit, so there’s no harm done. Why, 
child, ye do jest ez ye think best. Of course, it 
would be a delightful trip an’ er great opportunity 
ter travel an’ see another world, an’, child, ye might 
never hev sech a chance erg’in. An’, if yer heart 
inclines in thet direction ther least bit, ye had 
better grasp this opportunity fer, ez I say, it might 
never knock at yer door erg’in. Ez fer me, I’m 
all right. Aunt Molly would stay with me an’ we 
could hear often frum ye. An’ then er summer 
erbroad would be er wonderful eddication, dear, 
an’ might be er great advantage ter ye in yer teachin’ 
this fall. I wouldn’t decide too quick. I think er 
change would do ye er world uv good an’ fer pity’s 
sake, don’t let me stand in yer way fer a minnit.” 

“Oh, you dear, self-sacrificing grandmother, always 
the same,” cried Lydia, as she left the room. 

Aunt Rhue crossed the room and looked out the 
window through misty eyes. “Wall, self-sacrificin’! 
How them air words did cut an’ what er ol’ hypo- 
crite I am. Ef thet child only knowed how it tugged 
my ol’ heart-strings ter say it, she would never 
erg’in call me self-sacrificin’. Ez fer her Grand- 
mother Filmore, wall, ef she -thinks fer er minnit 
thet I’d stand in ther way uv thet child’s pleasure, 
she is grandly mistaken. No, siree, Lyddy shall go 
an’ there’ll be no whinin’ over it, nuther. Ez fer 


256 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


ez I’m concerned, I think there’s nothin’ more 
pitiful than er life spent in thinkin’ uv nothin’ but 
one’s self.” 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

“Mt. Lebanon, Green Mountains, Vt. 
“Dear Grandmother: 

“I am very sorry to learn you are not well and 
truly hope, before this reaches you, that you will 
have entirely recovered from the illness which 
prompted the letter written me. I thank you more 
than I can express for the draft to cover expenses to 
go to you in Germany, but, as I can not go, I am 
returning it. I can not think of leaving Lebanon 
at present. Since Grandpa left us, it’s so lonely and 
Grandmother is not well, and there is much business 
to attend to. 

“I have accepted a position in the Young Ladies’ 
Seminary, at Alderson, as instructress in Latin, 
German, and French; will also give lessons in harp- 
music. I do not do this from necessity, because 
Grandpa provided most bountifully for me. I am 
taking up this work because I love it. Grand- 
mother Wilbur has cared for me for many years, 
and needs me now as never before. I can not 
leave her. 

“With best wishes for a speedy recovery and much 
appreciation and love, I am, 

“Your granddaughter, 

“Lydia Wilbur.” 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


257 


After every one had retired, Aunt Rhue sat down 
to the old secretary and proceeded to arrange for 
her writing. Drawing the ink-hom to her, she 
deliberately dipped her quill and laboriously penned 
the following : 

“Mrs. Filmore: 

“There’s no one but God and myself knows any- 
thing about this here letter-writing. But I jest 
wanted to clear my skirts about our Lyddy’s not 
crossing the ocean, for she’s determined not to go. 
I’m sorry you’re sick, but don’t blame me for 
Lyddy’s not going. It was kind of you to send a 
draft, but please remember in future to omit it 
for it’s unnecessary. We are abundantly able to 
defray expenses an 5 rwhere we might choose to go. 
Philip Strong, that’s Lyddy’s intended, has just 
closed a deal with the P. & 0. R.R. for the north 
pasture ledge for forty thousand dollars and that’s 
not all. 

“Yours for health, 

“Rhue Wilbur.” 

Aunt Rhue folded and placed the letter in its 
envelope, sealed it with Uncle Nat’s old seal, ad- 
dressed it, and said: “Thar, thet job’s done, an’ er 
hard one it wuz, too. I’ll have Jake pass this ter 
Si Newman down ther road er piece termorrer 
momin’. No use ter disturb Lyddy erbout it when 
it’s only an ol’ woman’s whim; but I don’t want 
Mrs. Filmore ter think Lyddy’s stayin’ ter home 
ter keep us frum ther pore house. No, no!”^ 

In due time, both letters reached Mrs. Filmore. 
If she was displeased, she never showed it; but she 
was seriously alarmed about and strenuously op- 


258 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


posed to Lydia’s engagement; but, being prone 
to sidetrack anything that disturbed her, she put 
it from her mind as something that could wait. 
She was delighted it was to be a long engagement, 
and she would reach home long before its termina- 
tion. That Lydia was free, with her own choice, 
was a great conciliation to her. 

The next day, Lydia and her grandmother drove 
down Alden way to do a little shopping. On the 
way home, as Lydia stopped Bess to rest, her grand- 
mother said : 

“Lyddy, hev ye writ ter yer grandmother?” 

“Yes,” replied Lydia, ”1 gave the letter to Uncle 
Si this morning.” 

“When air ye goin’ ter start?” 

“What do you mean. Grandmother?” 

“Wall, I jest thought perhaps ye wuz goin’ ter 
Germany, an’, ef ye wuz, ye ought ter go Bolton 
way soon an’ shop er leetle an’ tell Philip.” 

“No, Grandma, I’m not going. Dear old Lebanon 
and you are good enough for me. Grandmother Fil- 
more must think because I have some Filmore blood 
in me that she can map out my life to please her 
fancy, but I think that, although you and I are plain 
Lebanon Wilburs, we are equal to the great emer- 
gency of taking care of ourselves.” 

“Tut, tut, Lyddy, don’t be independent; ye know 
ye air her only granddaughter an’ ye mustn’t speak 
so. 

“I have not forgotten. Grandma. I have most 
excellent reason to remember it. You will recall 
how some time ago you reminded me of my Revo- 
lutionary ancestors and of my own brave father.” 

“Yes, Lyddy ” 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


259 


“Well, what is the use of having so much good 
fighting blood and not be able to live up to it ? You 
see, Grandma, I understand Grandmother Filmore 
better than you do. Now the time has come when 
I am going to tell a couple of things that may open 
your eyes. There is a bachelor, old enough to be 
my father, that Grandmother has set her heart on 
my marrying. If I will not have Mr. McClure, her 
grandnephew comes next. The first has money, 
the second has blood. Both count for a great deal 
with Grandmother. She says I must form an al- 
liance, she calls it, with one of them. When I asked 
her about Mr. McClure, she said he was educated 
and had traveled and, although a man of the world, 
would make an excellent husband.” 

“ Why, Lyddy Wilbur, ye never told me uv such ex- 
periences before. No wonder yer frail.” 

“Grandma, I have tried not to allow these things 
to annoy rne. You have had so much on your mind 
this last winter, I thought best to keep such things 
to myself.” 

“Wall, pore leetle Lyddy, er fightin’ sech battles 
erlone. Did ye tell Philip?” 

“O, no, I woiUild not annoy him.” 

“Who would have ever thought yer grandmother 
wuz sech er schemer. I’m afeared I don’t under- 
stand her. Yer grandpa, God love him, said once 
when I wuz paradin’ her virtues, said he: ‘Mother, 
thar’s er yaller streak somewhar.’ But ther thing 
I cain’t understand is, when she is sech er religious 
woman, er puttin’ up sech er proposition ez er 
worldly marriage ter er leetle innercent gal like ye. 
This may seem harsh, but I cain’t help et.” 

“I feel humiliated to say it, but I believe she wor- 


260 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


ships wealth, and she is determined to have me 
marry a rich man. Talk about the rich, the inner 
circle, the four hundred, why. Grandma, If saw 
enough and heard enough while I was in Philadel- 
phia and New York last winter among those society 
people to satisfy me.” 

“Say, child, ez thet ther reason ye seem so changed, 
so womanlike? Ye hev never seemed ther same 
sence ye made thet last visit. Even yer grandpa 
noticed it an’ said one time: ‘Mother, our leetle 
Lyddy hez actually growed up. She’s er woman.’” 

“Yes, Grandma, last winter’s visit was of such a 
varied experience that I hardly know how to tell you. 
It surely was a revelation to me.” 

“Why, Lyddy! What do ye mean? I never 
heard yer talk this way efore.” 

“There is nothing much I can tell you ; but I would 
like to ask you one question.” 

“Very well, Lyddy.” 

“Grandma, did you ever have your faith shaken 
to the very foundation, so to speak?” 

“Speak on, Lyddy. I do not ketch yer meanin’.” 

“I mean, did you ever lose faith in any one you 
considered true and good?” 

“No, Lyddy, I dunno ex I ever hev unless it wuz 
when Deacon Franklin kicked up sech a rusty an’ 
wuz turned out uv ther church.” 

“What did he do. Grandma?” 

“What did he do? Well, I’ll tell yer. It wuz long 
afore ye wuz bom. Why, he jest took up with some 
woman down Bolton way an’ left his wife, Thirza, ter 
shift fer herself. It wuz scandalous an’ shook ther 
congregation, ez ye say, ter ther foundation.” 

“Poor wife! What did she do. Grandma?” 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


261 


“Wall, Lyddy, ther wuz er court-separation an’ 
ther deacon married ther wanton woman who caused 
ther split an’ left ther country with her. No, Lyddy, 
Thirza took no back seat. She jest maintained 
her dignity an’ went right on ez before an’ retained 
ther respect uv ther whole country round. No, 
she’s never married ter my knowledge.’’ 

“That was certainly a very serious offense, but 
what I meant was this: To see a person you con- 
sidered a solid, level headed, true, concrete person, 
glide off into a common generality, a person you 
thought you could bank on, could respect even to the 
highest point, could even reverence. Well, that has 
been my experience, out in the world, and it was 
what changed your quiet, Lebanon girl into an ex- 
perienced woman of the world.’’ 

“Speakin’ of people changin’ ther natur, reminds 
me uv er happenin’ ’way back when I wuz er bride.’’ 
This reminiscence caused Aunt Rhue’s face to relax 
and a faint smile illumined it. “I will hurry through 
with it, Lyddy, afore we reach home. Wall, ther 
wuz er fam’ly lived Boston way frum my home in 
Worcester, friends uv our’n. Ther man wuz er law- 
yer, er good man an’ true, not quite wise emough ter 
set ther North River erfire, but jest er good, honest 
livin’ lawyer. His wife wuz ther backbone uv ther 
fam’ly, though. They hed several children, more 
er less, an’ she saved an’ scrimped erlong till they 
wuz all raised up. Ther gals wuz ruther han’some 
an’ good, an’ ther boys wuz all right, but full uv 
mischief like, though they never done any special 
harm. 

“One by one, they married off an’ some uv ther 
gals’ husbands ‘struck ile,’ so ter speak. One gal 


262 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


hed er no count husband so she packed up an’ come 
home ter live. They hushed ther matter right up 
ez proper they should an’ thet put an end ter ther 
gossip. But thar wuz one gal ev’rybody loved, 
myself ermong ther rest. She wuz pure an’ simple 
in her manner an’ had er smile fer ev’rybody. Alius 
goin’ erbout ther neighborhood doin’ leetle acts uv 
kindness. Ef ther wuz er new baby, she wuz alius 
on hand with er leetle present. An’ ef anybody 
died, she wuz on hand with er posy. She jest 
seemed ter fit in anywhar. Wall, she wuz ther last 
ter marry an’ when she left home, thar wuz genuine 
sorrow. Her husband wuz er good man an’ ev’ry- 
thing he undertook prospered. An’ she wuz good 
in many ways ter her parents, sendin’ uv ’em gifts 
an’ er letter every week. Her husband kept gettin’ 
richer an’ richer an’ finally ther wuz er leetle baby 
girl come ter them, an’ ther whole soul was centered 
on her fer a time; but, ez she growed an’ developed 
so did ther fortunes, an’ ther leetle one wuz left 
more an’ more ter nurses an’ hired help, ez is fashion- 
able. 

“Wall, Lyddy, ther whole upshot uv ther matter 
wuz she couldn’t stand prosperity. Her mother died 
thet hed alius hed an influence over her. An’ thet 
didn’t help matters any. One by one, she dropped 
her old friends an’ all ther time she wuz tryin’ ter 
squeeze inter what she called aristocratic society. 
She wuz ambitious fer her child, she said. Wall, 
Lyddy, fine clo’s an’ diamonds an’ horses an’ car- 
riages, an’ servants an’ above all, money, jest 
swep’ erway all ther sweet, lovely traits uv char- 
acter she hed in ther old happy days, an’ jest left 
ther husks all dressed up fine. She sort uv ignored 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


263 


all her old friends; they were no longer necessary 
ter her happiness. She asked no favors ner be- 
stowed any fer she cud hev ev’rything thet money 
cud buy; with one stroke uv her pen, she cud cancel 
all obligations, she thought, fer money seemed ter be 
er god ter worship. Wall, child, ter speak plain, 
prosperity hed ruined our sweet, pure Worcester 
rose.” 

“Grandma, that is a sad story, but how true to 
real life. I have heard of similar ones, how women 
and men sell themselves for wealth and luxury. Isn’t 
it strange that money counts for so much with some, 
and what is it, compared to the sweet, simple life? 
Oh, Grandma, how grateful I am for having been 
reared in this beautiful country and for the honest, 
moral instruction received day by day from Grandpa 
and you. It will ever be a beautiful thought that 
all I am or ever expect to be, I owe to you and 
Lebanon, and this sad story of the gentle, loving 
nature so changed by the glitter of gold will always 
stand out as a warning chapter in my life. It is too 
bad to see such noble natures warped and twisted 
by prosperity.” 

“Wall, Lyddy, did it ever occur ter ye thet sech 
people arter all air not as even an’ well balanced ez 
they orter be? Thar’s somethin’ lackin’, child, 
somethin’ lackin’. Then jest look at people we 
know who hed no happy childhood ner anything ter 
help ’em on in life, an’ how they hev developed an’ 
growed in grace an’ prosperity. I want ter tell ye, 
child, they cain’t fit er square peg in er round hole, 
but ye kin whittle it till it fits. You know ther 
people who air cared fer an’ sheltered in lovin’ homes, 
don’t know what ther pore unfortunate city-breds 


264 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


air up erg’inst. Ez er general rule, it needs er few 
hard knocks ter round out an’ develop our natures. 
I tell ye life ez er hard proposition when thar’s no 
special opportunities loomin’ up before us ; but what 
I cain’t understand is, why should er leetle money 
make sech er change in people ? They can’t manage 
ter take any uv it with ’em on the journey into thet 
great, mysterious unknown land beyond where 
neither gold ner bank-checks ner diamonds kin avail 
them anything; fer thar’ll be no pockets in ther 
shrouds, child, neither will they need staff ner 
script.” 

“I think you are right. Grandma. Life is a prob- 
lem and it takes long, earnest, and careful thought 
to work out a proper solution.” 

“Lyddy, did ye ever think uv how impartial God 
hez alius been ter mankind? Thar’s no set rule ez 
ter how much yer goin’ ter be wuth in cash value ner 
how much back-stock ye’re wuth when ye die. No, 
child, thar’s two things money can’t buy, thet’s birth 
an’ death.” 

“Yes, Grandma. I fully realize what an all-wise 
God we have. I often wonder what we would do 
without His tender ministrations in time of need and 
a welcome approach at all times to the throne of 
grace, and under all circumstances whether sad or 
gay. I often think of the various ways in which we 
are brought in contact with Him. Sometimes, it is 
through the tiny, clinging hand, again through the 
love of good men and women, loving companions 
and tender friendships, often in the silent night 
watch and through the loving ministrations of dear 
ones. Again, his loving watchcare over us day by 
day, perfecting plans we know not of, revealing love 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


265 


and tenderness, if we will 
be.’^ 


accept it, wherever we may 


‘‘Yes, Lyddy, thar’s the p’int — ef we will accept 

As they drove into the yard, Jake came forward 
to take the horse. As Lydia threw the reins to him, 
she asked: 

“Is everything ready to begin haying to-morrow? 
The men will be here on time.” 

“Yes, Miss Lyddy, ther sc3d:hes air all ground ter 
razor-sharpness an’ ther grass is jest right ter 
mow.” 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

The time had passed rapidly. Two successful 
years of teaching and two happy summers on 
Lebanon had caused Lydia fully to realize that at 
last her ship of happiness had come home to her, in- 
voiced with the greatest love that a pure, unselfish 
man could bestow. The lottery of patient waiting 
had yielded up at last her heart’s desire, and, inci- 
dentally and without design on her part, she was the 
winner. At last, she had entered into the sanctuary 
of love, the love she so much needed to round out her 
full life, and its closed doors would forever shut out 
the annoyance and doubt. 

During the first year and a half, Philip had visited 
her often; then business of great importance took 
him abroad — the settlement of some rich estates. 
Philip hesitated, but Lydia would have him go. 


266 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


Weekly letters from Philip, freighted with love and 
news of much interest from the old world, were 
greatly enjoyed, and an occasional letter from Mrs. 
Filmore always displayed her displeasure because 
Lydia would not leave Lebanon. 

Late in the winter, there came from Philip a letter 
telling that he was in Berlin, Germany, and that 
this was the last city he was to visit and that soon he 
would sail for loved America. He also told her that 
he had read that morning in the Berlin daily that 
Mrs. Filmore was seriously ill at her hotel, as was 
also her companion. Miss Howland. 

After this, letters came at close intervals and con- 
tained the news that he had called on Mrs. Filmore 
for Lydia’s sake, and that she had rather coldly 
asked him to call again; of how Miss Howland had 
died, and of the arrangements he had made to have 
her remains sent home, the cable messages sent, and 
of the necessary legal proceedings in regard to her 
personal belongings reaching her friends; of how he 
had cancelled his own steamship-date in order to 
attend to every detail satisfactorily; of how, for days, 
Mrs. Filmore had been kept in ignorance of her com- 
panion’s death, and of his daily visits to her; of how 
deep into the valley of the shadow of death she had 
gone; of the time spent by her bedside during the 
crisis; of the excellence of the German nurses; of 
how again he had cancelled the steamship-date, 
to remain at her bedside until all danger had passed ; 
of how she clung to him in her helplessness and en- 
treated him to stay; of her great anxiety to reach 
her own home once more, and of how she pleaded 
with him to wait and return with her; and, at last, of 
how she acknowledged that all her objections were 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 267 

removed and that she was willing that he should 
marry her granddaughter. 

Philip hesitated, for it meant loss of time and 
business to him, but Lydia entreated him to stay for 
her sake, and Philip had consented to remain. He 
arranged all Mrs. Filmore’s legal matters abroad, 
paid all her bills, secured a competent nurse, attended 
to the purchase of stateroom passage with accommo- 
dations for maid, and, near-by, one for himself. 
Complete arrangements were made for the voyage 
home, even to the easiest carriage to carry them to 
the steamer. 

Then, came the news to Lebanon flashed by cable 
that they were to embark the following day for home. 

Mrs. Filmore was in excellent spirits in antici- 
pation of the homeward trip. The next morning, 
Philip was aroused in the dull, gray dawn by the 
announcement that he was wanted at once at the 
hotel. He hurriedly slipped into his clothes and, 
calling a cab, stepped out into the cold, drizzling 
rain ; after giving directions to the driver, he settled 
back in his seat, wondering what could be the matter. 

At the hotel, he was met by Doctor Osthaus, who 
told him Mrs. Filmore was ill and had desired to see 
him at once. Philip hurried to the sick-room to be 
rewarded only by a smile and firm handclasp of the 
dying woman. He bent and kissed her forehead, but 
an appealing look and upturned lips caused him to 
kiss her again, as he whispered, “For Lydia’s sake.” 

With a smile, the dying woman whispered: “It is 
well, Lydia.” 

Again, the steamship-tickets were cancelled ; again, 
the cable flashed across the ocean; again, grim 
death had to be dealt with. As Lydia reread the last 


268 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


cable in the quiet of her room, she bowed her head 
and murmured: “I thank thee for this great revela- 
tion of Thy love that has come into my life and 
leveled all barriers. I thank Thee for Philip Strong 
and for dear friends; also, for the little success I 
have attained. I now pray that the watchword, 
‘Love,’ be substituted for ambition, forever. Sanc- 
tify this great joy of reconciliation that I have been 
waiting for for years. I thank Thee again that my 
ship is safe-freighted with love and some one to 
cherish and protect me forever.” 

As the three-thirty limited came slowly to a stand- 
still in the train-shed at Philadelphia, a week 
later, a young woman, accompanied by an elderly 
one, stepped from the train, to be met by a dis- 
tinguished-looking young man, who quickly advanced 
with outstretched hands. 

“Oh, Philip!” exclaimed Lydia, and, as he put his 
arm around Aunt Rhue and drew her to his side, she 
whispered : “Philip, my noble boy, welcome home.” 

The day after the funeral, Mrs. Filmore’s lawyers 
came to the house and, in company with Philip, who 
produced all the private papers given him by Mrs. 
Filmore, proceeded to adjust the business as best 
they could. The reading of the will took only a 
short time. Its first bequest was to the Old Quaker 
Church; next, substantial remembrances to all the 
old servants; then all the rest in sum total was be- 
queathed to Margaret Lydia Wilbur. A week 
later, the Filmore mansion was closed and put on the 
market for sale. 

Philip remained until the last detail of Mrs. Fil- 
more’s business was carried out in full. Then, he 
took the train for Boston and thence on to Bolton. 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


269 


Later, Lydia and Aunt Rhue, with the two old 
colored servants, Uncle Calib and Aunt Miranda, 
started on the homeward trip to Lebanon. 

It was a rare day in J une . N ature had been lavish 
in beautifying Old Lebanon. Lydia had just re- 
turned from Alden Center and carried a letter in her 
hand just received from Philip Armstrong. 

“Dear Miss Lydia: 

“The announcement of your engagement and 
approaching marriage received. How kind of you 
to remember me! It does not seem possible you are 
really grown up. I like best to think of you as my 
little child sweetheart and have often thought, if God 
had blessed me with a sister, I would want her just 
like ‘Lyddy, uv Leb’non.’ I want to tell you in this, 
which is perhaps the last letter Lydia Wilbur will 
receive from me, that your sweet and lovely person- 
ality as a child has often proved a benediction to me 
and I have loved you with a strong, brotherly love. 
I have, in your occasional letters during the past 
years, watched with pleasure and pride the marked 
advancement along intellectual lines, and I know 
that you are fully competent to cope with the world 
in whatever station you may be placed. 

“As the brother, Philip, of whom you have writ- 
ten so often, takes on a nearer and dearer tie, may 
I not be adopted in his place ? You know I am alone 
in the world and you are my only hope, my little 
mountain sweetheart that was, my precious sister 
to be. Give my love to dear Aunt Rhue and affec- 
tionate and hearty congratulations to yourself 
and Philip Strong. 

“On the morrow, I sail for China, leaving the 
Golden Gate of the dear old United States. I will 


270 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


write you when I land. Now, I close this letter with 
brotherly love to ‘Lyddy, uv Leb’non.’ 

“Philip Armstrong, 

“San Francisco, California.” 

Silently, she returned the letter to its envelope. 
“Brother Philip. How easy and natural to say. 
Yes, you shall be my brother Philip Armstrong.” 

A few weeks before, Lydia had given her resigna- 
tion as instructor in the Seminary, in Alderson. Her 
work there had been pleasant and she had enjoyed 
it and, now, as she sat down on the steps of the 
piazza and looked about her, she enjoyed, as never 
before, her environment. As the fragrant, pungent 
odor of Aunt Rhue’s white lilac was wafted to her 
she closed her eyes and murmured: 

“How can I thank Thee, dear Father, for all the 
blessings to me. I find truly that all things are 
possible with Thee. I thank Thee for this letter, 
this new demonstration of friendship. Make me 
worthy to accept it in the true spirit in which it was 
written. Dear Father, there are many wonderful 
things in life but the inception and growth of this 
love of Philip Strong for me is the greatest ; and then 
the reward of waiting has been more than satis- 
factory. All the trials and sacrifices have but tested 
and tried us both, and, now, to think I am free to 
express my love that has been so pent up, so crippled, 
so thwarted, that has stood with broken pinion 
waiting. Oh, God, I thank Thee that at last the 
stone has been rolled away from the sepulcher of 
love and that it has come forth purified and free. I 
thank Thee that ambition has been conquered and 
that I am free to take happiness by the hand, free to 
give Philip his just reward. 0, Philip, my kingl” 


LYDIA OP LEBANON 


271 


The sound of horses’ hoofs aroused her. As she 
arose, a gleam of sunlight shimmered through the 
trees. Nature seemed to understand. Not a ripple 
of air stirred. Every leaf seemed at rest, so quiet 
was the atmosphere, and seemed in perfect harmony 
with the waiting heart. She looked up and saw 
Philip, coming toward her with outstretched hands. 

“Why, Philip !”^ 

“I could not wait for Uncle Si, dear,” he exclaimed 
as he drew her tenderly to him. Then, looking down 
deep into her eyes, he saw there that the gift he had 
been denied so long was his at last. Slowly, they 
turned and walked toward the house. As they drew 
near the steps, the door opened and Aunt Rhue stepped 
out. As they came to her, she raised her hands, and 
they bowed and received her benediction of love. 

Every one was busy. The house was strangely 
quiet. The tall old clock ticked off the hours to the 
given time when the wedding party should start . Aunt 
Rhue stood by her bedroom- window and murmured : 

“Never again will Lydia Wilbur come home. Pore 
leetle gal, goin’ to be married, but Pm glad uv it. 
She desarves ter be happy. Alius so good an’ kind 
ter Father an’ me.” A tear glistened in her eyes 
as she drew on her gloves, but she murmured: “Thy 
will be done.” 

“Yes, yes, Lyddy, child, I’m cornin’. I’m all 
ready. Is every door locked ? Ye know ther house 
will be left erlone fer ther first time. Tell Josey 
ter put er extry knot in ther stove an’ ter leave ther 
oven-door ajar.” 

As Aunt Rhue joined the family party, her face 
was wreathed in smiles. But as Lydia drew her 
grandmother’s arm within her own, she caught her 


272 


LYDIA OF LEBANON 


eye and there saw as never before a revelation of 
what it must mean to her grandmother to lose her. 
It was a repetition of what she had seen there when 
she went to Philadelphia the first time, only more 
sad, and the remembrance of that look now rushed 
to her memory. Tears burned under her lashes, 
but her muscles grew firm as she said with a smile: 

“Dear Grandma, how sweet and lovely you look,” 
and they walked to the family-carriage in waiting. 

The bell rang out from the steeple of the old South 
Church, calling the people of all classes in Alden 
Center to witness the marriage of Lydia Margaret 
Wilbur to Philip Strong. 

Aunt Rhue was again dressed in the gray silk and 
once more was the white crepe shawl in evidence. 
No prouder man ever stepped to notes of music 
than did Si Newman as he walked up the aisle with 
Lydia on his arm. They were met at the altar by 
Philip Strong, and the old white-haired, much-loved 
pastor who pronounced Philip and Lydia man and 
wife. As they turned to leave the church, Si was 
heard to remark : 

“Gosh all fish-hooks, boys, but thet wuz ther 
hardest job ther Alrnighty ever laid on me. But I 
guess He knows His business all right, ef we hev 
all lost ‘Lyddy, uv Leb’non.’ But I reckon ye’ll 
jest erbout find her equal in Mrs. Philip Strong.” 

“What use for the rope if it be not flung. 

Till the swimmer’s grasp to the rock has clung? 
What use is eulogy’s blandest breath, 

When whispered in ears that are cold in death? 

No! No! if you have but one word of cheer, 

Speak it, while friends are alive to hear.” 

f 760 








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